


Silence where there should have been sound.

by equilibriumSeeker



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grieving John, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Requited Love, Romance, Sad Sherlock, Scars, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equilibriumSeeker/pseuds/equilibriumSeeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-People often unravel slowly, fall to pieces a little at a time. Therefore it can sometimes be very hard to know when to declare them broken.</p><p>Sherlock’s fall, his return to a John who’s not coping so well with any of it, and the wretched consequences of it all. Will Sherlock ever get his John Watson back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. no good, hold on

**Author's Note:**

> First of I would like to announce that I **obviously** do not own these characters.  
>  This story has been sitting on my computer for about 2, 5 years, and will be the first thing I have ever posted. So you can tell that I'm pretty new to this, and frankly a bit nervous. It was meant to be for my sister and her eyes only, but she's been encouraging me to post it, so now here we are.  
> I remember while writing that I sometimes got inspired by a poem or a quote, but unfortunately I can’t seem to recall from where (so if anything sounds familiar you now know why.) I apologise in advance for any spelling or language errors that have occurred. (English is not my first language ).  
> The first two chapters have now been Betaed and Britpicked by the lovely hamstermoon  
> Anyways, I guess that's all. Hope you'll enjoy it!

It is said that it is hard to declare the exact time as to when a human spirit is shattered. It is not as simple as a plate slipping through one's fingers and crashing to pieces on the floor beneath us. Things fall apart quickly, are easy to announce broken, and are easy to either replace or repair. Human beings are different though. People often unravel slowly, falls to pieces a little at a time, and therefore it can sometimes be very hard to know when to declare them broken.

John Watson was one of the exceptions. His whole reason for being came crumbling down in one go, at the exact time as his friend’s body smashed against the pavement outside of St Bart's hospital. _"It's a trick. It’s just a magic trick."_ \- A magic trick that made the world disappear.

John could not, would not, ever believe that Sherlock had told him a lie. Although he had heard Sherlock say it himself. “I invented Moriarty.” Even as John watched with his own eyes as Sherlock’s perfectly symmetric light pink lips formed and spoke the words that came out at John’s end of the line - even if he had indeed heard it with his own two ears – John refused to believe that Sherlock was a fraud. Moriarty was real. Everything was real. John knew that. John knew Sherlock, he knew him like nobody else knew him. He knew him like nobody else ever would get to know him.

Sherlock’s fall, Sherlock's death, tore John apart. It tore him apart like nothing had ever torn him apart before. John had watched as many of his friends had died in the war, but that was nothing compared to how it felt when he lost Sherlock. Something was different about this time, he felt differently. John was never prepared for the feelings that would come crashing down and not even in his wildest dreams he could have imagined it even possible to feel hurt like this. Complete devastation and crumbling heartache were an understatement. At first there was unbearable excruciating pain, days, weeks, months passed after that. But one feeling, let’s call it despair, still remained.

There are five well-known stages of grief. They are responses to loss, they are necessary defence mechanisms that are supposed to help our mind, help our soul to cope. They are supposed to help us stay alive. _Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance_ \- these are all reactions to our grief. There is no typical response to loss, and there is no typical loss. Our grief is just as individual as our lives, and therefore it can manifest itself in different ways.

In the days before the funeral John shut himself down completely. He lived inside of his own emptiness, securing himself for the world outside. For the world was now meaningless and overwhelming, and life no longer made any sense. Nothing made any sense without Sherlock.

Life was full of hardships, this he knew, but these feelings were not normal. The kind of pain he was feeling was a killing kind. He was afraid, afraid to move, afraid to talk, afraid to make any sort of connection to the outside world - Because he knew that once he did, his friend, his best friend, would truly be gone. - If he just stayed here alone in his mind, then maybe, just maybe, he could make himself believe that it had not occurred. That a great life still waited for him on the outside, that this was nothing more than a cruel and destructive nightmare. That if he stayed here just a little bit longer, Sherlock would return and piece him back together again.

It was a strange sensation, not time nor space held any sort of confirmation to his existence. Time had stopped and the world had faded away, but still he knew, he knew that he was alive. The burning sensation in his heart, and insufferable pain that came with it was the affirmation of his survival. - As said once before, time had been non-existent, or frozen in the doctor’s mind. But time moves, with or without you. There are forces so great in this universe that no one can escape them forever.

 

* * *

 

 

A warm hand on his, followed by a wet cheek against his own, dragged him out from his head and back into time. Back into space, back into the world. Mrs. Hudson’s red and wet eyes confirmed his fears. Faith had been broken, and the last spark of hope burned out. _Sherlock was really gone._

He wanted to go back. _Oh God,_ how he wanted to go back. Anything would be better than this. This place held so much sorrow, so much hurt. He felt like he was drowning, but to reinsert the barriers between himself and reality would mean leaving Mrs. Hudson behind, and John could not do that. What if she was not equipped with the same armour? What if she lacked the ability to shut the rest of the world out? Then she would be left, left to face the harsh reality on her own. _No._ Leaving again was not an option.

The chair that he had been sitting in for days creaked a bit once he leaned forward and embraced her in a much too hard hug. John might no longer care for the world, but she was in it, and he cared for her. He was staying.

 

* * *

 

 

There was this silence in the flat nowadays. There had been days on end were Sherlock had not spoken, days that he had spent away on cases or at Barts. It had been quiet then too, there had been long periods without any sound, but never like this. This silence was a constant reminder of his eternal and complete absents from the world. This silence made John shiver. This silence made him feel cold.

They had visited Sherlock’s grave together. It was the first time John had left the flat since that dreadful day. He had so many things he wanted to tell Sherlock, so many things he wanted Sherlock to know. Would it have changed things? Could he have changed things? How was he supposed to go on without an answer to that? John did not see how he would be able to continue his life without Sherlock. So there he was talking to a stone, pleading with a rock, for the man beneath his feet. Because he did not belong in the ground, _he belonged with John._

The moment the stone had come into view, John had felt it. This was all that was left. In that moment he knew that he could not go back to Baker Street. Back to the couch that Sherlock never again would throw himself and sulk in after a tantrum, back to the violin that his pale long fingers never again would caress, back to the cleverly hidden cigarette package he would never again search for, back to the blue dressing gown that could never be worn again.

He told Mrs. Hudson this while they stood above the grave. Told her that he could not go back, not now, he did not explain it any further, because he did not need to. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and told him that she understood, and that he needed not to worry, because how could he go back, after Sherlock? John was so grateful for this. They left the cemetery together and then they went their separate ways.

 

* * *

 

 

After the visit to the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson, John went to his sister Harry. He only stayed nine hours, because as it turns out, the only thing worse than being surrounded by everything Sherlock had once touched and would never touch again, was being apart from it. He just had to go back.

The flat was not what it had once been, it paled in comparison. But there was no other place he could survive. When John arrived home that evening it was the first time he noticed it. The flat, it smelled wrong. _His smell was fading._ Losing its strength gradually. Sherlock had this shampoo that made his black curls smell like freshly mown grass, soap with underlying tones of lavender. The laundry liquid he used had labelled its scent as aloe vera. John did not know exactly how aloe vera smelled, but he knew that Sherlock’s clothes smelled of that, and now, so did Johns. If you got close enough, you could always sense the hints of coffee, mixing with any number of strange chemicals. Sometimes there were traces of gunpowder or a whiff of smoke along for the ride. It blended in nicely with the other components. It was the ideal mixture. It was the perfect smell. But even if John could gather all these things and combine them, it would not have been enough. He would still be missing the key component. He did not know how to describe that smell. It was unique, unlike any other. Everything failed in comparison. _It was just Sherlock_ Plain and simple, no other way to define it… And now it was fading.

The door to Sherlock’s room had remained closed. John had not dared to step one foot inside since… _since everything._ He thought about it now, for a short while. Maybe he could go inside, just to make sure, just to be certain that the smell had not faded in there as well. He let his gaze wander in the direction of the closed door, but stopped at that. He decided against it, he was not ready for whatever awaited inside those walls. Instead, he walked over to one of the bookshelves to fetch one of his old high school yearbooks. It was indeed old, old and worn out and ruff around the edges. John was not being sentimental, _at least not when it came to his school years._ It was not the book he was after, it was its contents.

Sherlock was not,  _had not been one for sentiment._ Besides, he had already known everything he wanted or needed to know about John just by looking at him for a few minutes. Knowing that the book never would serve any interest for his flatmate, John had decided that it was the perfect hiding place. He had carved out a hole in the middle of the pages, a secret compartment where he had hid Sherlock’s cigarettes. Each time Sherlock had failed to find them John had felt proud, because it truly was a miracle that he John Watson had been able to hide something like that from the deducing genius. Not that Sherlock had looked for them many times, or that he had given the search his full focused or attention, if he had then he would have found them eventually. But still, it had been a small victory.

John lifted a cigarette out of the compartment and slowly rolled it between his fingers, feeling the texture. He brought it closer to his nose and absorbed the smell. He missed him so much, _this helped a bit._ John had never been much of a smoker. He had only done it once or twice in his teens, and he had hated it. All irrelevant now. He lit the cigarette, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smoke filled up his lungs. This was an act of a desperate man. _Pathetic._ Was this who he had become? The smoke and the smell spread throughout the room. And John decided that he did not care if this was who he was now.

 

* * *

 

  
John had thrown and broken many things during the first months, he had sobbed and screamed, and Mrs Hudson had held him in her arms. Squeezing his hand tightly and telling him that she would be there for him, and that it would be alright. Everything would be alright.

It did not really get easier or better with time. His feelings, or for a more accurate phrasing inner turmoil had begun to take an atrocious form. He could not stop it from leaking out, splattering all over. It was influencing his actions, most of the time he was only semi aware of the things he did or the words he spoke. He was just so angry. Angry at a world he no longer understood or felt that he had a place in, enraged at its mindless, stupid people going on with their lives as if nothing was wrong.

Ideas are independent, they have a self-contained existence. Once a thought or a rumour is created, then there is no escaping it. That was all Moriarty had done. He had planted a seed, an idea that Sherlock Holms the great detective was a fraud, a fake. It had been all it took. The people had turned on Sherlock. They were glad that he was gone. John hated them, all of them. And he hated himself for hating them. Because what they thought or felt should not matter. He knew the truth and that should be enough.

Dealing with the grief was hard enough, without having people viewing his struggle. Sherlock being who he was,  _who he had been_ and the situation playing out as it had of course meant for entertaining stories and speculations from the press. Johns face was now known by the public. _The friend of the madman, or the monster._

It was hard for John to go outside. Everywhere he went people recognized him. -Stared at him with either disgust or sympathy, which was neither appreciated nor welcomed by the doctor.

The disgust, John had worked out came from the fact that he had let himself be near Sherlock, and that he was now obviously grieving him. The sympathetic looks stemmed from the same reasoning, except they seemed to view him as the tragic or stupid man. They felt sorry for him, because he had not known better than to trust the fake genius that was now the hottest talk around London.

Yes, everyone knew the name Sherlock Holmes by now. And where Sherlock’s name was uttered, John’s soon followed.

No friends or family had made themselves known to claim the body of Richard Brooks _as Moriarty was now known as._ Instead the whole city had. The people had arranged for a memorial on the rooftop. Flowers had been placed and tears had been shed over the tragic loss of the unfortunate man whom had been an innocent casualty. They all presumed that Sherlock had shot him dead before he jumped off the rooftop. John hoped that was true.

There were no flowers placed on the pavement where the detective had met his death. God, how John hated them.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a constant battle -The need to remember, and the urge to forget. John still saw him everywhere. Sherlock was still there, in some ways, his presence still lingered. -The endless echoes of all that once were. It did not matter where John went, what he did. He would not go away, _or John would not let him._ The places John visited, the streets he walked, and the people John met they were all leading back to him.

John saw his face in every crowd. Each time he came across someone with a black coat, or a blue scarf his heart shattered a bit more. That is what happens when you build your life upon someone else’s. You cease to function. You forget who you are without them.

When John was younger he had dreams. A good and honest job, a beautiful wife and a house with a white picket fence that is what he wanted out of life. _Did not seem like too much to ask for._ Back then he knew who he was. Who he wanted to be, and he worked, worked so hard to get there.

There being a doctor, a healer. It was that kind of occupation that had inspired him. To be someone who can help. Someone that can mend something broken, take something bad and make it good again. In some ways he guessed that he wanted to be able to do something special, have important skills that the common man lacked. To bestow knowledge that only a few had. Yes, in John’s younger years he had wanted to be extraordinary.

John could still remember his first time at a doctor’s office. He had been about seven, and had taken a bad fall. A lesson to all parents out there, do not give your seven year old son a bike with flames on it, and then expect them to ride slowly or be careful. John’s parents had learned that lesson the hard way. It was with a concussion and a broken arm that John had made his first memorable visit to a hospital.

He had not liked it at first, his head hurt, his arm hurt and he just wanted to go back home. The place smelled weird, people wore boring white clothes, and they all seemed to be in an awful hurry.

After half an hour in the waiting room John and his parents were finally guided to an examination room. Inside the room John had met a man in a white coat. The man had introduced himself. John still remembered his last name. _Smith, Doctor Smith._ He had been friendly, had made some small talk and had then told John that he needed to examine his arm.

The doctor had touched the arm, turned it, put some pressure here and there, and told John to announce when it hurt more. The doctor was looking for clues. By watching, turning and feeling John’s arm, he managed to deduce what was wrong. Similar method when he examined John’s head. By some simple tasks and questions he knew what was wrong. John thought that is was pretty cool. Even better when the doctor fixed him up, and took away some of the pain.

A seven year old boy saw a mystery and this man was a detective, gathering clues and solving the case.  At that moment Doctor Smith’s boring white coat turned into a cape. At that moment John knew that he wanted to be Doctor Watson.

Even though John had known from a very early stage what he wanted to do with his life, it had not been easy. But then again, he had never been one to turn away from a challenge. He had fought his way through med school, through the lectures, essays and exams. He had spent years of his life with his head inside the textbooks. John had tried and he had succeeded. He had loved his work, every minute of it. He felt like he did good, and that felt good.

_Perhaps that is why John had decided to go back to work only a month after Sherlock’s death; it had not worked out well though. On his first day back, he had stood before a patient with a five centimetre cut on her forehead. John had collapsed, and it had taken four more months before he could go back to work._

Then a new challenge arose. There were wars going on, doctors were needed. He could help. Help the ones injured in battle. Help the ones injured because of the battles. In war zones, there were so many in need of help and so few capable of helping.

It was like another world over there. John saw poverty, starvation and disease. – helped where he could. They marched through sandstorms, thunderstorms and gunfire. He made friends, and he lost them. _Not all, of course, but enough._ John went to war with a sense of purpose, the drive to help and heal. He returned home with a gunshot wound, a limp and a posttraumatic stress disorder.

After the war life felt meaningless, uneventful _Boring._ John felt inadequate. He had been unable to stay and help his friends and now he was unable to go back. He felt alone. All he saw were limitations. Life had lost its colour. Depression hung over him like a black cloud, life was neither fun nor exiting anymore. He had honestly believed the he had lived through the best years of his life, he could not have been more wrong.

 _"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_ That is what he had asked. That is all I took -one meeting, one person- to change John’s whole perspective of the world, and of himself.

Sherlock had just looked at John, and known so much about him. Everything John had done told Sherlock something, the way he walked, the way he talked even his tan lines. John felt like he was seven years old again. Sherlock was gathering clues, solving mysteries, whilst remaining one himself.

John was intrigued, _how could he not be?_ Sherlock was different, and he was interesting. _And he wanted John as a flatmate!_ In less than two minutes Sherlock had made John feel more alive, more excited about his future than his therapist had managed in over six months.

Sherlock Holmes seemed like this arrogant, obnoxious, self-centred nutter. But he was exiting. John was thrilled by him. Drawn to him. It was strange he did not really know anything about the man, but he followed him blindly. Hardly knew him, but trusted him completely. Their friendship was never forced. It developed quickly and felt so natural. There was this unspoken, undeclared bond between them. They completed each other, trusted each other and needed each other.

Sherlock and their flat became Johns new normal from the first night he spent there. One day as flatmates and it felt as though Sherlock had been a part of John’s whole life. This did not mean that is was not hard. Sherlock was unlike anyone John had ever met before. _He could really be an annoying prick at times._ He could be demanding, condescending and sometimes cruel. He was easily bored, and would sulk a lot. He left fingers and varied body parts in the fridge, interrupted John’s dates and played the violin at 3am. But John would not change Sherlock or the time they had together for anything in the world.

_God,how he missed him._

 

* * *

 

 

One year to the day. _One year without him._ John could hardly look at himself in the mirror these days. Whenever he did, he no longer saw his own reflection. He saw all that he no longer was and could never be again. He still did not know who he was without Sherlock, one year gone by and he was still so utterly lost. This was not living, only surviving. It felt like his life had begun and ended with Sherlock.

9am came the first knock on his door. Mrs Hudson with a tray filled some delicious smelling hot rolls. John put on a brave face and invited her to sit down on the couch while he put the kettle on. They talked, drank their tea and danced around the subject for about an hour. Then Mrs Hudson finally cracked and asked him how he was. John told her that it was okay, that he was fine. _It was not, he was not._ He was not much of an actor, but she had let it slide. He would not, could not talk about _him_ not now, not today.

Molly was next, she had brought ice-cream. They talked for a few hours, never about _him_ , just about life in general. It was nice to have Molly there, she made his mind busy. She visited a lot these days. They had grown close over the last year. They had never really spoken about Sherlock, or about everything that had happened. He guessed she could tell that he was not ready maybe she wasn’t either, so she found other things to talk about. John was grateful for that.

Lestrade was the last visitor. They watched a couple of bad action movies and drank some beers. They sat in comfortable silence for most of the evening. John did not mind the company; to be honest, he was thankful for not having to spend this day by himself. The clock struck eleven and John followed Lestrade to the door. John got a pat on the back, and questionable eyes met his. _Are you going to be okay for the rest of the night?_   They asked. John nodded his head. The situation was far from ideal, but he would manage somehow, he always did. The two men said their goodbyes, and John went back to his armchair and his beer.

Now he was alone again.

Alone with his thoughts, alone with his memories. The beer was soon traded for Scotch. It would have been so easy to deal with everything in that way, to drink himself into oblivion. He would have lied if he said that the thought had not entered and re-entered his mind. It was not as if he felt or feared that the alcohol would waste his life away, did not think so highly of this so called life. But to put his friends through that, to risk them feeling the way about him, as he did his sister was not an option. That is why he had not turned to it, but tonight he needed it. Tonight he was willing to make an exception. For tonight he wanted to drink the world away.

Some time later when he got to his feet to refill his eight or was it ninth glass of Scotch he noticed the room spinning, everything was moving. –round and round and round again. Having a hard time controlling his feet, John took one step forward and two steps back. Bemused, he shook his head and focused on the bottle or _bottles_ on the kitchen counter _counters._ That was his goal, the finishing line. He needed to reach the bottle. Three more wobble steps forward and only one back. John saw this as a small victory.

He had no genuinely no idea how long he was stuck in what felt like an endless loop, this uphill battle of steps back and forth. _It shouldn’t be this hard to walk across the living room. Damn._ Logic was nowhere to be found, the alcohol had already worked its magic. He could not think straight, _hell, he could not even stand straight._ If he would have been able to use his brain properly, then perhaps he would have seen the flaws in the plan that his foggy brain was formulating. But he could not, so he would not.

_If I can’t walk, then I should run._

This undoubtedly ill-advised and stupid plan did not work. John braced himself before running across the living room, about seven steps in; he tripped on his own two feet and fell to the floor with a loud bang. Merely seconds later Mrs Hudson’s worried voice was calling him, as her steps got closer and closer to the door. She was so very quick for her old age, _bad hip included._

“Oh my dear boy,” she announced when she first saw John struggling to once again get on his feet. “Are you alright?” _Man, she was fast!_ Now all of the sudden she was kneeling beside him, helping him up into sitting position.

The flat reeked of booze. John did not know what to say. _He should be ashamed right?_ A grown man drinking himself into a stupor. Waking and worrying his old, sleeping friend and landlady. He looked into her eyes, searching for guidance. John did not see anger, nor did he see disappointment – he only saw worry and sorrow. The same sorrow he found each time he looked into her eyes.

One year ago, that was the first time he recognized it in her eyes. That was when it had made a home there. _A permanent resident._ It would never leave. Never move out. _They would never move on._ Then it hit him, it was the first time he thought it. And he was too drunk to hide it, to keep it at bay. “I hate him,” John decided. Mrs Hudson’s head flew up at that.

He was the reason behind the constant sorrow in Mrs Hudson’s eyes. Why did he get to go? How could he have just left them? It wasn’t right nothing about this was right! _You can’t do that!_ Put hopes and dreams into people’s lives, only to later crush it. That’s what he had done _._ He had given John hope. Made him want a future, made him hope for a future- then ripped it out from under him. _It wasn’t right._ Hope can be cruel, false hope felt worse than death.

John had not only lost Sherlock that day. He had lost a piece of himself, and he would never get it back. He could no longer function. No longer live the way he was meant to. Every day he was changing, he felt it. With every passing hour he got further and further away from the man he once had been. Sherlock had done this, had made himself disappear. And for that John hated him. He had taken it upon himself to remove their future. They could have had years of stolen moments, understanding glances and lingering touches.

“How could he?” John asked, his voice cracking as he whispered the question into the crook of her neck. Mrs Hudson did not say anything, she just held him close. The thin line between love and hatred can sometimes be hard to balance; at times you are doomed to fall over. Mrs Hudson sat with John until dawn broke outside, until the birds began to twitter, until he found his way back. They never spoke about that evening, or the words that were uttered.


	2. one down, far too many to go.

Sherlock had known all along what it would come down to. His pride, his reputation had already been dragged through the mud, if Moriarty thought that this kind of thing would bother him, well then he had been severely mistaken. Let the people think what they want, there was only one person whose opinion mattered and he still believed.

There was one problem though, Moriarty held all the cards, he owned the stage and he controlled it. Sherlock was merely a player, a performer in this sick and twisted production. Moriarty laid out the plot and explained the story. – _Spoiled the ending._ It had a dark and sadistic underlying theme, much like its creator. He had allowed him one move, one choice. - If one could even call it that.

Once Sherlock had found another way, another move, it had ended with a bullet in the brain. _Not his own, but still this man was truly insane._  With his final action, and the gaping hole in the back of his head Moriarty had succeeded in pushing Sherlock in the direction as he seemed fitting, tying together the last loose end to his hellish fairytale.

From that moment on Richard Brook was real and Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. Moriarty was a creation, so that John Watson would stay alive.

 

* * *

 

 

This would not be the end of the detective’s story, but it would be an end to life as he knew it. His final phone call was a heartbreaking experience, but a necessary one. Sherlock was not stupid. He knew that John was coming even before the taxi arrived. Moriarty had not given Sherlock a countdown, so that left John. John was the timer, the ticking clock.  _It worked for the best anyway._ Because John had to believe that Sherlock took his own life. He needed him safe, and no matter how inhuman it may have seemed John needed to watch his fall -This was a necessary evil.

Sherlock knew John, he knew that if he did not witness him stepping off the rooftop by his own free will, then John would never believe it. He would not accept it, and he would try to find whoever responsible. And those actions would end up costing him his life. Sherlock could not allow that to happen.

“I…I – I can’t come down, so we have to do it like this…” The words did not come easily, and he hated the shakiness in his voice. He wanted to stop this, he wanted there to be another way. He wished that he could go down, go to John. He wanted so badly to be able to hold him, or at least get a chance to tell him goodbye face to face.

John moved, headed towards the entrance and Sherlock needed to stop him. Because Sherlock knew that John would never have made it into the building. He cursed Moriarty, and himself for what was about to come, and for forcing John to watch. Sherlock managed to stop John and the conversation continued. He told him that he was a fake. That he created Moriarty for his own purposes. Through all of this he was beginning to crack, but managed to keep his composure.

“Why are you telling me this?” was Johns reply.

Those words were a testament to the depth of his loyalty. John did not believe him, did not believe his words, and maybe he never would. Sherlock turned back slightly; the cold breeze ran through the fabric of his coat and sent a shiver down his back. He looked down at John, and he could almost swear by his expression, that the pain in John’s soul was the same as the one in his own. Sherlock’s face finally cracked, he was crying now. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, for him, for John, for the separation to come.

There was a strange mix of emotions running through the detective’s body. He knows that it is of the uttermost importance that John believes his lies. But still, he felt so grateful for his trust. Sherlock has no idea what he has done to deserve that trust, or the devotion that John is constantly showing him. - Even now, now when the odds are against him.

He seeks comfort in that knowing, the knowing that no matter what he says or does John will never doubt him. But this is not about what is best for Sherlock, or how it makes him feel. It is about John, John who is going to be left alone, John, who is going to believe him to be dead. Sherlock knows that he has a dangerous path ahead of him. His survival is not guaranteed. He might never get to see John again. He might never get a chance to clarify his actions. Therefore it would be better if John simply hated him. To tell John goodbye was the hardest thing Sherlock had ever had to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Our existence is made up by a constant battle between antipodes. -Hate and love, black and white, left and right, strong and weak. – When you think about the world in this way it seemed fitting, that in his place of death, he celebrated life.

Molly and Mycroft, or rather a carefully selected number of Mycroft’s associates had helped Sherlock to make the impossible possible. Once his supposed dead body had made its way to the morgue, Molly had been there to greet him. It had taken hours for the drugs to leave his system and it was the middle of the night when the detective finally stirred awake. Molly was relieved to see him open his eyes, to get the confirmation that he was indeed alive. Of course she had been in on the plan all along, she was after all the one who had supplied him with the necessary drugs. But there had always been the chance of something going wrong.

She gave him a few seconds to adjust into a sitting position, and was just about to tell him, to beg him to rethink his actions. To think about what it would do to John, that there had to be a better way. Just as she had begun to open her mouth, her eyes had come into contact with Sherlock’s bright blue ones. His eyes were open widely filled with unshed tears that were threatening to overflow. His face was tense, clearly as a result of his inner struggle.

Molly had never seen him like this before. Sure, she had seen him look sad. But this was not sadness, it was agony. Visible for anyone to see, painted over every part of his body. The mask that he had always been so determined to keep intact had shattered. For the first time in her life she could see Sherlock. See every emotion written across the lines of his face. She just stood there staring at him, unable to comprehend the sight before her, yet understanding it so easily. She now knew that this had to be done. She understood now that there was no other way.

Sherlock who was now sitting on top of the solid steel bench, shifted a bit, and let his feet dangle freely in the air. He should be trilled, the first part of the plan had been successful to say the least. He was alive. John was alive. He had woken up at a perfect time, it was the middle of the night, and no one was there except for Molly and himself. No witnesses, no complications, no disturbance. _Perfect._ But he was in pain, not the psychical sort. He found himself wishing for that instead. He wanted to exchange the emotional pain for the physical kind. It was more familiar, easier to handle and to control. Something was wrong, something was missing. He felt a gaping hole in his chest. His brain was working, he had his focus. His body was once again obeying him. The drugs were no longer in control. Still he felt so completely incomplete. He felt hollow.

He tried to focus on something else, his thoughts wandered to one of the many times he had stood over one of the steel benches that he was now occupying, observing, gathering clues. _“Brilliant”_ the word spoken with amazement and joy echoed through the detective’s mind, so loud that he almost let himself believe that John had figured it all out an made himself present. He did not need to raise his gaze though. He knew that it was all imagined, his memories taunting him, reminding him of what he once, but no longer had.

He knew that he should fight this, that he should shut the memories out. But when he thought about John, the void in his chest seemed to lessen, so he allowed himself to continue. He stood up, and started pacing back and forth in the room.

 

* * *

 

 

What would it be like if John was here; would he have held his hand as the drugs left his system? Would he have woken up with Johns watchful eyes upon him instead of Molly’s? Would he have hugged Sherlock? He imagined John in many different scenarios glad, worried, sad, mad, anxious, images of John flashing before his eyes. Perhaps he would feel a little tense, trying to diffuse the situation with a bad joke. Coming back from the dead, something zombie related, _yes the joke would definitely have a horror movie reference._

He seated himself on the floor, shifting his position a bit. Trying to make himself more comfortable. The floor cold and the room quiet. The visions of John had started to mix with the ones he saw just hours ago. He wished to delete them, they did not belong. They should not exist. But since he was the one who had caused them, he deserved the heartache that came with.

Molly stepped closer to him. Kneeled down beside him, and slowly lifted her hand and placed it on top of Sherlock’s arm. He pulled one of his hands up from where he had curled it around his legs, and placed it in hers. He did not know why he did it. It was not normal behaviour from him, but on the other hand, this had been anything but a normal day. All he knew was that right now he needed the comfort that Molly’s hand was providing. He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand tightly, as if it was his lifeline. There they sat, together in silence. Until Molly’s phone let out a vibrating sound.

Mycroft” Sherlock stated, before she even reached for the phone. Molly looked down at her phone and then spoke. “He is on his way. He’ll be here in about 10 minutes.”

“Good” he replied. And again there were silence.

After about a minute or two Sherlock cleared his throat, a little hesitantly at first, but then spoke once more. “Do you think that he will be okay?”

Molly looked down on the floor. Took a moment to carefully choose her words, and then looked up at him. “Yes…when enough time passes I think that he will be.”

Sherlock could tell by her eyes and by the tone of her voice that she did not believe her own words. But he knew that this reassurance was the best that he was going to get. So he played the game and nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

 

 

Moments later rapid footsteps heading in the direction of the morgue could be heard. The door opened, and Mycroft greeted them with his presences. He held a packed and ready suitcase containing clothes, identity papers, _well, false identity papers,_ a passport and a great deal of cash.

“I have everything you asked for.” He calmly stated, shifting his gaze towards Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at his brother “Everything?”

A small smirk formed on the older man’s lips as he stared into his eyes and nodded “Yes, Sherlock _everything._ ” There was a silent understanding between the two brothers and the conversation continued.

Mycroft thanked Molly for her assistance in the matter, and went on to inform Sherlock about the flat that he had acquired. It was a small place, in Tower Hamlet. Secluded, and with a slim possibility for him to be recognized, he was after all only staying for a few days before he left the country.

“Oh,” Mycroft said. “One more thing before we go.” He went back to the door, opened it swiftly and in walked two of his associates. They were struggling a little. Walking slow, due to the dead body carried between them. The first man to enter the room was walking backwards, holding the dead man’s arms. The second man to enter the room held a firm grip around the legs.

“Thought we might need someone to burn, would be a little strange if there weren’t any ashes now, wouldn’t it?” Mycroft face lit up as he spoke the words, proud of his accomplishment. _Obviously!_ Sherlock thought, like he had not considered that already. _Of course he had._ And he had a solution to that problem as well. Yet he was now intrigued by his brother’s contribution. Sherlock took one look at the dead man before him.

“Which one is he?” he asked.

“Consider him a parting gift.” Mycroft continued, raising his brow while looking at his brother's face.

Sherlock did not need any further information. He knew exactly who the man that this body once had belonged to was. He had been the man who had the audacity and the stupidity to aim a sniper rifle at John’s heart. The detective stared down at the body once more with hatred in his eyes, and exhaled deeply. “Thank you.” He told his brother, still not moving his eyes away from the corpse. It was very unlike him to thank anyone, least of all Mycroft. But he felt that in this case he could make an exception. In this case he wanted to show his gratitude.

Mycroft responded with a small smile and assured Sherlock that everything would be taken care of. Sherlock shook his head, it was not good enough “I want to be there” he said. He knew that it was a risk, but he needed to watch him burn. Mycroft let out a small huff of annoyance, but did not argue as they began their journey towards Ilford and The City of London Cemetery and Crematorium.

As the flames rose inside of the cremation chamber, the skin began to crack and burn. -The body slowly vaporizing from the heat. Molly, Mycroft and Sherlock stood in silence, watching the flames work, wiping away the evidence of this horrible man’s previous existence. Justice had been taken into their own hands, and no one regretted the outcome.

Molly felt that the world would be a better and safer place without that man. Mycroft felt that he was rightfully protecting his brother. And Sherlock felt the sweet sensation of revenge coursing through his body. They could almost imagine the smell of the burning flesh inside the chamber. Sherlock felt that this was a moment to savour. One wrong had been made right. One injustice had been collected. One threat annihilated. He was one step closer to his return from the dead. _One step closer to John._ One down, although he did not know how many to go, all he knew was that for the first time in his life it was not the game or the investigation that was important. It was the end result.

 

* * *

 

 

Unseen, unheard Sherlock and Mycroft had managed to make their way through the city and to the empty block of flats. There was only one more resident, an old, slightly senile man living alone with his cats. Mycroft had gathered enough information about the man to know that he served as no threat to their secret. He also knew that apart from his daughter who usually showed up on weekdays the man never had any visitors. At times, having a high level security clearance and government connections made life a tad easier. The flat had been used at times before whenever the British government needed someone to disappear for a while.

" _This is a place, not a home"_ , Sherlock thought as he stood in the middle of the small room. He missed the smell of home from the moment he put his foot through the door. It was a small space. White walls and black curtains came into his view. But it had everything he needed for the time being. _Well, almost everything,_ but he was not going to let himself think about that right now. There was a bed placed along the side of one of the walls. A dark olive green armchair accompanied by a small black table by the window. Next to the other wall there was a small workplace, with a newly purchased computer, courtesy of his brother.

Sherlock was in a frantic stage, pacing back and forth in his new place. He wanted this over and done with, and he had not even started. He needed to calm down. He needed to regain his focus. He had after all a whole criminal network to bring down.

As the two brothers parted ways, Mycroft reached down into his coat pocket and then handed Sherlock a new phone. “Please, do keep me updated on your whereabouts.” Sherlock nodded in agreement. He had a long road ahead, and he needed to start as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

 

As the months progressed the detective was always on a travelling foot. Constantly alone and waking up in strange surroundings. He spent all of his days and most of his nights working. He had already managed to take down a few of Moriarty’s collaborators. But there were many left. They were skilled, they were clever and they were vicious. Sherlock hated that it took such a long time, and the fact that they were so hard to track down.

He had received a few cuts and bruises, minor battle scars, nothing that he could not endure. He kept Mycroft posted as promised. Each time he located someone new Mycroft insisted that he should wait, that he would send backup. Sometimes he waited, and sometimes he did not. The decision was always a hard one to make. The chances of survival did increase when one was provided with a small army watching over your back. And yes, his survival was important. To be able to return home to John was important. But the waiting, and the risk of someone slipping through his fingers, disappearing before help came was not something he was willing to jeopardize.

He often found his mind wandering, always to the same place, to a sacred little corner of his mind palace. To the place that was all him, all John. _His_ _John_. In every possible angle, with every expression he had ever seen formed on his face. Although he liked the once were he smiled the most. His mouth, his nose, his chin. Every curve, every dimple, every line on his face. Every shade of green blending together to create those beautiful and soulful eyes. Every memory each moment retraced preserved and carefully stored.

 _Yes, his John._ It had taken him some time to come to terms with his feelings. He had been very good at suppressing his emotions so incredibly skilled that he once thought that he had managed to rid himself from that human weakness forever. That he had evolved beyond the world's other simple minded creatures. No longer bound by pesky emotions or affections, for what could one need apart from logic and rationality? _Enter John Watson._

Have you ever come across the phrasing “Your opinion of me does not define who I am?” Well. In most cases this is correct. But John was the first man who saw Sherlock, and seemed to like what he saw. After years of being misunderstood, alone and _well, to put it nicely “disliked”_ he finally met one person who thought he was brilliant, amazing even.

At first he enjoyed the compliments. It felt nice to know that his brilliance was appreciated. But after a while he found himself craving them, along with the doctor’s approval. It was bizarre to say the least. Why would he care what a short man little man in funny sweaters thought of him?  
He tried to ignore it at first. Tried to shut the feelings out, but found it impossible. He hated John for that. He wanted to punch him, _hard!_

All men are born with a selfish desire that stems down from the distant past. It is simple human nature. It is easy to observe, simple to understand. Kindness on the other hand is far more confusing. It is not something that we are all born with, but rather a choice, made individually by each single person. John was a kind soul. A caring person, and somewhere along the line he had started to rub off on the detective. As time passed Sherlock found that he now had a friend. He had someone that he cared for and valued. And it was okay.

If he were completely honest with himself, then maybe he would admit that it had been easier to shut down before, to not care. He had never been given the affection or affirmation that he had craved. People always seemed to shy away from him. They had seen him as one thing, and somewhere along the line it had been easier to become that person. _The self-proclaimed sociopath._

But then he met John. Ordinary but extraordinary John Watson, he did not turn away. He saw and he stayed. John had broken down barriers that Sherlock had spent years building. But he no longer hated him for that. He had been a man once infected by the misunderstanding of feelings. What once was considered a weakness was now the only reason to keep breathing, and to keep fighting.

 

* * *

 

 

He remembered that day at the pool, when John had stepped out from the shadows covered in semtex. That was when Sherlock knew. That was when he knew that not only did he care for John, _he loved him._ The panic, the anguish that took a hold of his body at the sight before him, of John in that vest, Sherlock would never forget that.

The thought of Johns absent from the world, from Sherlock, still chilled him to the bone. It had been painted all over his frantic face. He had been so focused on John that he had forgotten to hide it, to even try to hide it. It had only been for a second, but Moriarty saw it. He saw it and he knew. That is why there had never been any choice on the rooftop. They both knew that there was one life that Sherlock valued above his own, one man that he would willingly give his life for.

The months slowly turned into years and with each passing day the desperation grew. The clock was always ticking, the hours, the weeks going by. Increasing the past, reducing the future. Decisions were made hastily. He jumped into situations unprepared and now had the scars to show for it. Assistants were now nothing more than a fleeting thought.


	3. he does not belong in boxes

They are lying in bed, together. As it should be, the way that John had always hoped for. Everything feels right. John feels so light, so inexplicably happy. He never wants to leave here,  there is no other place he would ever want to be.

John closes his eyes for a short moment. He feels Sherlock all around him. The heat and smell radiating from him. _How did I get so lucky? Why me?_ John can feel Sherlock’s fingers tracing alongside his cheek. He has to open his eyes again. Has to look at him. It is impossible to describe how John feels when their eyes meet. John has never seen Sherlock like this before. _Should I tell him? I should, shouldn’t I?_

“What goes on in that funny little brain of yours?” Sherlock asks, breaking the silence. It is not an insult. His voice sounds warm, his tone is sweet. John looks astound, he has no answer. Sherlock just smiles, a full smile that reaches his eyes. He even lets out a little giggle. John feels Sherlock shifting slightly, decreasing their distance. _I think I know what’s going to happen. I hope I know._ Sherlock leans forward, he is even closer now. Their foreheads connect and John stares once more into those deep blue orbs. Their lips are closing in, almost no space between. This is it, he thinks bubbling with anticipation.

“Soon” John hears. His heart drops, his blood runs cold and he freezes. John knows that voice. What is he doing here? He is dead! _I know he’s dead_. Moriarty’s high pitch laughter echoes though John’s ears. He abruptly pulls away from Sherlock’s embrace, to search for the source of the laughter. He must be in the room, in the flat, somewhere nearby.

Sherlock is looking at John, eyes filled with tenderness. _Didn’t he hear it?_ John cannot find, cannot see Moriarty. Perhaps it was all in his head, his mind playing tricks on him. _Must be._ Still, it is hard to shake this newfound feeling of anxiety. He feels a bit not good. _What am I missing?_ He feels as though he should say something, but he is afraid -afraid to burst their bubble. For once Sherlock is focused on John, and John alone. John fears that the mention of Moriarty will make Sherlock close off. Will get him stuck in his mind palace; maybe even make him leave the bed. John weights his options. He wants to be the only thing occupying Sherlock’s mind, but it is not fair and he knows it. Sherlock is looking a bit worried now, _and_ _wow, I have not spoken for a really long time._

“Moriarty” John finally says, and the smile on Sherlock’s lips begins to fall. But he does not move away, instead he inches closer to John.

 “Not yet, John” Sherlock mumbles. And all of the sudden he pulls the duvet on top of them. Covers from head to toe, shielded from the outside world. There is just the two of them now, and Sherlock seems decided to continue what they almost started. John has no time to react, Sherlock leans forward again, and suddenly their lips are united. It feels wonderful. Sherlock’s lips are warm and sweet, tastes of tea. John can feel the need, the urgency in the kiss. And when Sherlock pulls away again John’s cheeks are red and he is panting.

John feels Sherlock’s hand grabbing hold of his arm. It’s a strong hold, almost painful. But John has no time to dwell on that, the look in Sherlock’s eyes keeps him busy. “John”, Sherlock whisper, it sounds almost like a pleading. John cannot speak. Sherlock continues “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” The breath is stolen from John’s lungs. Dread fills his body. It sounded so familiar. _I have heard those words before_. Sherlock just keeps staring at John, like this is the last time, like he was never going to have the chance again. John does not know what is going to happen, but he can feel that it is not going to be good. He can see the sentiment that Sherlock always hides, always denies written across his face. It is unnerving. John is terrified, paralyzed all he can do is stare back.

Their surroundings change, John does not notice. He only has eyes for Sherlock. Suddenly the pressure on his arm disappears. Sherlock has let go and now he is falling. Everything comes tumbling down. And John remembers, he knows how this story is going to end.  Still, he tries. He always does, he has to. Try to latch on, try to grab him, but to no use. He is too late. _He is always too late._

John is alone. Standing on the rooftop sobbing his eyes out, while Sherlock continues to fall. He feels a burn in his chest, and subconsciously rests his hands above it. There is moisture there. His shirt is wet and smeared with something. There is blood on his hands, and a hole in his chest. His heart is missing, ripped out of his still breathing body. _How on earth am I still standing?_   It does not matter, because now he hears it. John can swear he hears it, Sherlock’s skull fracturing as his head meets the pavement.

Sherlock is done falling.

 

* * *

 

John woke up screaming. Hyperventilating and covered in sweat. He tries, but fails to control his breathing. His body rebelling, demanding more air. The red numbers on the alarm clock showing 02.10, officially a new day.

Two years today then. Two years without Sherlock. Two years without any reason to go on. Two years since John had watched as they lifted his friend’s lifeless and weightless body up on a bier and wheeled him away. Every limb in his body looking so relaxed.  John had watched as the blood streamed down the contours of his friend’s pale face, the way they followed the path of the dimples of his cheekbones and dripped off by the end of them. Eyes still wide open - the same piercing blue eyes that he had looked into, oh so many times before - only now the one thing reflected in them was complete emptiness – nothingness The echoing sound of each drop of blood hitting the pavement still lingered in John’s mind. It was a sound that John in his life would never forget - _the sound of all his hopes and dreams slowly fading away._

No matter how hard John tried, he could not get the burning sight and the flashing images of Sherlock’s bloody face on the pavement out of his head. Each time he closed his eyes - there the images were, haunting him. The daylight was no longer a barrier which the night terrors could not cross, because the images were with him all along.  _No, this was a nightmare that John was never going to awaken from._    John knew that he would never be whole again. He knew that he would never be able to piece himself back together completely, and he knew that his life was never  going to be the same.  - _Not without his best friend, colleague and flatmate._   He knew that he would never get back the piece of his heart that now was missing, a piece that had Sherlock Holmes name written all over it.

John allows himself a few more hours in Sherlock’s bed; he knows he will not fall back to sleep, but he is in no hurry to leave. Today is one of those days that John allows himself to wallow in the sadness and self-pity. Here, surrounded by the warmth, by his things, by whatever is left of Sherlock’s scent John remains. There are boxes all around, boxes filled with _him_. Boxes that Mycroft was supposed to pick up ages ago, but that John is grateful he has not yet done. 

To explain the boxes, to explain John’s appearance in Sherlock room, we need to go back one and a half years.

 

* * *

 

 John had kept all of Sherlock’s belongings, of course he had. He could not stand the bare thought of giving any of them up. Not even his stupid skull. Some days the only thing that gave John the strength to get out of his bed was the thought of holding, touching, stroking or looking at Sherlock’s things.

Traces of Sherlock were to be found everywhere, and so John could still feel his presence everywhere he looked. That was the closest that John would ever come to feeling at peace again. Although six months had passed, most of Sherlock’s things were still lying in the exact same spot. Practically everything in the flat that had been Sherlock’s had remained untouched. John could not bring himself to move any of it. He had not even once sat a foot inside of Sherlock’s room. That door remained closed at all times.  The shooting holes, the smiley face – they were all things that had remained intact. 

Sherlock’s things comforted him, yet destroyed him at the same time. But he would not have had it any other way. 

On a not so special day, a rainy day, John had been sitting in his armchair staring into thin air. _Something he did a lot these days_. It was supposed to be a day just like the others. He would sit, stare and count the minutes until the day was over. Then he would have a short moment, where he would feel a hint of pride of the fact that he had gotten through yet another day. He had resumed his work at the hospital, which kept him busy _to some extent_ and helped pass the time. Today he had a day off, and nothing as per usual was happening.  That is how it was nowadays, nothing was happening, and then after a while nothing continued to happen. Little did he know about Mrs. Hudson’s plans to change that fact. Because on that particular day she had decided that she needed to take action. Having phoned Mycroft earlier to discuss the matter they had both arrived to the same conclusion. It was time to pack up Sherlock’s belongings.

By that time it had after all been six months, and 221B that had once been a cozy home had transformed into a shrine. Things you were no longer allowed to touch, use or move. And John got that hint of panic in his eye every time someone got too close to disturbing the status quo. There was a perfectly nice and useful kitchen table hiding under half finished work and science equipment. There was a soft and comfortable armchair that no one dared sit in. There was a sacred vacated shelf in the fridge that once had been resigned to various body parts. And there was an empty room behind a closed door, which now matched the description of a holy ground. John could not go on living like that. It was not healthy behavior. It was counterproductive. It was self-destructive. And it had to stop.

Mrs. Hudson felt that John at least should try the trying part of moving on. What she aimed to achieve could be explained down to one thought, one notion. She wanted John to be aware of the fact that _one day he would have to move on with his life_. Which day it would be, however long it took was up to him, she only wanted to plant that thought in his mind. She was not expecting him to stop caring. She was not expecting him to forget. She only wanted to remove some of the constant reminders from his everyday life.

 

* * *

   
John had felt ambushed when his landlady had entered the flat carrying moving boxes. He had wanted to scream. Yell at her to get the hell out of there! But he lacked the energy for it. _Should have seen this coming._ John was not ready. He could not pack away Sherlock’s life. They could not put him in those boxes. It felt like getting rid of the world instead of some things in it.

At first he tried to argue. It was troublesome formulating an argument that did not make him seem weak; he was so tired of being weak. He went another direction, told Mrs. Hudson that he was not up for it today, that he was not feeling all too well. _Which in fact happened to be true_. Not that it mattered though, her mind was already set, and she made it perfectly clear that she would start today. With or without John’s assistance.

He did not want to help! He wanted all the things to stay the same. There had already been far too much change in his life. _Why couldn’t she just let this be?_ It was Sherlock’s things and they belonged here. They were in their right places. Mixing and melting together with John’s. _Why was she doing this?_ There was no need for this! He should not be forced to let go when he did not want to. _When he was not ready_. It was wrong and cruel, and he would not stand for it.

“I’ve spoken to Mycroft, he will come by,” she stopped midsentence, realizing “oh, my, well I don’t know exactly when, by probably sometime next week.” She made her way to the kitchen, shaking her head slightly, annoyed with the fact that they had forgotten to set a date. “Best get started then” she announced.

How was John supposed to argue with that? He had no real claim to Sherlock’s things. They had not been spouses, not been a couple, they had been flatmates. -Which meant, that Sherlock’s things did not belong to John. Mycroft had every right to take his brother's belongings now. He had every right to do with them as he pleased. A part of John had just wished that he would have left them.

Mrs. Hudson had already put the kettle on, and was now starting to gather up the files and papers crowding the shelves and kitchen table. John, still passive, did not lift one finger to help. He had come to the conclusion that this was unavoidable, but that did not mean that he liked it, or that he wanted to help.

Next in line was the science equipment, the microscope, the burner, the test tubes, the dishes, the slides, the flasks, everything went into one large ugly brown box. When she was done, the table looked naked; you could actually see it for the first time in… _he didn’t know how long._

It had not been until Mrs. Hudson made her way towards Sherlock’s room that John had jumped up from his chair panicking. There was a reason to why that door had not been opened. It should remain closed! How could she not see this? How could she not understand? _It is Sherlock’s room!_ He would not have wanted them to wander around in there without his permission. Going through his things, his personal properties, it did not feel right. It was not like Sherlock was there to take offence, by the action, this John new on a rational level, but emotionally it felt wrong. The things lying around in the flat were one thing, they were accessible. Sherlock had chosen to place them in their shared areas so that felt alright. But to just walk into his room, to snoop through, _yes snoop through, that was what it felt like,_ the things he had stored in there felt like betraying his trust, felt like trespassing.

John was shielding the entrance with his body, both arms outstretched to each side of the door frame. “John I have to pack up a few things in there as well” Mrs. Hudson said slowly, taking one more step against the door. “And I have to make room for the boxes; we can’t have them out here in the living room”

“I’ll do it” John heard himself say, and honest to god he did not know how or why those words left his lips.

“Alright dear, you do that, and I’ll just continue out here. God knows how many boxes I will fill with only case files and old notebooks.” She mumbled and hurried back to the living room area.

So there he stood, was it too late to take it back? Too late to change his mind? As much as it frightened him to take that one step, he could not have someone else take it. He should be the one to do this; he had after all, been Sherlock closest friend,  _had he not?_   The one person that Sherlock most likely would have chosen to do this. _If he’d been alive to make that choice._ Someone had to do it, and John was the only one who should. It was his duty,  _was it not?_  It still did not feel right, but the thought of someone else doing it, felt even worse. 

 

* * *

 

John opened the door to Sherlock’s room for the first time, and by doing so he opened something inside of him that he had fought so very hard to keep bottled up.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, it was beyond words. He needed to savour it, without thinking he hastily slammed the door shut. He was there, inside Sherlock’s room, so many feelings, he did not know what to do with himself. He scanned the room, and then he saw it.  There, still lying on the bed - _exactly as Sherlock had left it_ \- was Sherlock’s purple shirt. John was standing beside the bed, he allowed his fingers to stroke and play around with the soft fabric - if only so for a second, it comforted him. Knowing that Sherlock had worn this piece of fabric comforted him. Remembering how great Sherlock had looked wearing it however, made John blush.  John could see Sherlock so clearly in front of him, but this time there were no traces of blood to be found anywhere on Sherlock’s face. He could just see Sherlock, simply just Sherlock smiling while playing his violin. And it felt amazingly good.

The sounds, the melodies that Sherlock used to compose with his violin, had been pure magic.  -The way he hit every single note with precision every single time. What John would not do to hear it one more time. Symphonies that could lull him to sleep. That could soothe him; comfort him after a bad dream. When Sherlock played, the rest of the world faded away. There was nothing besides the music. John had never told Sherlock how talented he was. _Then again, Sherlock must have known. Known that John found him brilliant in every way._

John still felt uneasy about this, so he decided to start off with something small. He made his way to the sock drawer. _Should be harmless enough._ It truly amazed John how Sherlock could make such a mess, leave his things all over the place, but still have every cabinet, every drawer completely organized. John opened the second drawer, and a small smile formed his lips. So he did own underpants thought John. _That mad git_  had _just been opposed to wearing them while visiting the queen._

 

* * *

 

John soon realized that he had not brought any boxes with him. He made his way towards the door, and when he cracked it open he came face to face with Mrs. Hudson. She had a mug with hot tea, not a cup, a mug. Not any mug, Sherlock’s mug. His favourite. John wondered if she knew. If she had noticed, the way he had. Had she chosen this particular mug with a purpose in mind? And if that were the case, then what possible purpose had she had in mind?

She handed it over to him slowly, careful not to spill out its intents. He reached forward, grabbed it, not by the handle. The porcelain was hot, burned his fingers. He did not think. Instinctively he let go. It fell to the floor, crashed against it, cracked to pieces. Hot tea in a pool on the floor _. Broken. Fractured_. He looked down at it, so many pieces. Is it possible to put it back together again? Will he be able to fix it? It will never be as it once was, but maybe he can glue it back together again…give it the illusion of being whole once more.

Mrs. Hudson stares at him, eyes wide. _She knew_. “Sorry,” she said, sending him an apologetic look. “It’s fine” John breathed. “It’s- it was just a mug.” He swallowed, and then started to clean up the mess. When it was taken care of he retreated back into the room.

 

* * *

 

John continued his mission in a slow pace. It was far from easy. It had taken him two hours just to get the clothes into the boxes. He had purposely left out the purple shirt, which he would keep. John struggled on, and started to pack up the things in Sherlock’s shelves. He found a framed picture there, of Sherlock and a chubby version of Mycroft in their youth. John almost laughed. It was hardly a mystery to why Sherlock had framed and kept that specific picture. _Must annoy the hell out of Mycroft._ John pulled his phone out of his pocket and snatched a picture of his own before carefully putting the frame into the box.

Somewhere along the line, Mrs. Hudson announced that she was done, and John told her that he would move the boxes for her when he was finished in there. He thanked her for helping, even though he suspected that she had orchestrated this whole thing to begin with. He also told her goodbye, and goodnight.

On a shelf behind some old books John found an old photo album. It contained pictures of a young Sherlock. There was something written beside each picture, dates, locations that sort of thing. It was a woman’s handwriting, and John could only assume that it was written by Mrs. Holmes. John went through it, and once more took out his phone to snap a few pictures.

John decided to leave the frames on Sherlock’s walls. He could take them down some other day. When he was done, it was late and he was emotionally exhausted. He went out into the living room to fetch the remaining things, saw the skull in one of the boxes, picked it up and put it back in its rightful place.  Baker Street was its home, and John doubted that Mycroft would care that much if he kept it.

 

* * *

 

With one last look around the room, he figured that he might as well check under the bed. John himself used that area for storage, so perhaps Sherlock had done it as well. There was nothing but dust, and one small lonely box under the bed. John pulled it out, dusted it off and removed the top- curious to what was inside. It contained something from every case John and Sherlock had worked on. There was an origami flower, _a black lotus_. He went through it all; spread it out on the floor. Sugar cubes _Baskerville,_ phones, along with other small keepsakes from their adventures. There was nothing from Sherlock’s earlier cases, just the once that he and John had worked on together.

He stared at the pink phone. The starting point-their whole future in front of them- had John known even then? Was what he had felt for Sherlock love at first sight? At last sight _? At every sight?_ John pushed it away. Those kinds of thoughts were dangerous. Causes more hurt. They shall forever stay hidden, unspoken. Locked away, just as Sherlock’s little box filled with sentiment. How are you supposed to let go when all you want to do is hold on tighter?

John guessed that Sherlock would have wanted John to be surprised by his findings. But this however was not the case. John had always been aware of Sherlock’s emotions, despite the fact that he had been very keen on denying them on more than a few occasions. John never doubted that Sherlock fought hard to keep them at bay. Relying on logic, head before the heart. He wore that thick exterior. Plastered on that godforsaken mask of his, used harsh words to prove his point. _Will caring about them help save them?...then I’ll continue to not make that mistake. Don’t make people into heroes John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I would not be one of them. I don’t have friends. Alone is what I have alone protects me._  
  
But every once in a while the masked had slipped, the walls had crumbled and John had seen it. -The affection in his eyes, the sentiment on his face, the emotions in his tone of voice. John had meant what he had said at the grave, Sherlock was the best man and the most human… human being John had ever met.

Yes, Sherlock had known sentiment, of this John was certain. As to why he denied it… _maybe he was scared?_  Feelings can be frightening, opening up, relying on someone else may cause you pain. _Perhaps that is what Sherlock had done in the past?_ John did not know all too much about his friends past. He knew that he had been a loner. He was special, people often found him strange. John could easily imagine a young Sherlock being used, befriended for his gift, and then cast aside.  
  
Sebastian Wilkes was an example of this, using Sherlock for his benefit, asking for his help, then offends and ridicules him in the process. John had not liked the unsure look on Sherlock’s face that day. He had not liked the fact that his friend lied about his deductions, dumbed himself down for someone else’s benefit. _Was that the way he had been treated during his school years?_

It is easy to become hard, when you are alone. Better to convince yourself to stop caring about people, when no one cares for you. John had been Sherlock’s first real friend, that had been made clear. John remembered the first months; there were times when he had caught Sherlock looking at him with a strange set of eyes. There had been times that he had looked utterly surprised to find John return to their flat after a heated argument. It was almost as if Sherlock had been waiting, waiting, and expecting all along for John to give up. Announce his surrender, pack up and leave _. As if that would ever happen_.

In the small little box John had also found a picture. With a cut-out from an old newspaper, John held the evidence. It was of Sherlock in that ridiculous deerstalker standing close to a smiling John. Sherlock had cared for him. _Not that he had not known of this before, still it felt nice to have it there literally in black and white_.  John only hoped that Sherlock had known, had understood how much John shared the sentiment.  

It was late, or some people would call it early. When John gathered up all the things in the box, and placed it back under the bed. He decided not to retreat back to his bedroom; instead he went to Sherlock’s bed and curled up under the covers. The sheets had not been washed; there were a few black hairs on the pillowcase. “I miss you” John whispered into the night. Days like steps, one at a time.  He often questioned why he kept going, he found no concrete answer. He hates it; he hates what his life has become. Still, there are limitations to what he is prepared to do to escape it. He wraps Sherlock’s covers tighter around his body. Breaths in and out, the smell is calming, makes him feel safe. John does not believe that there is a way out, but there are adjustments that can be made, so that he will be able to live with the conflict. From that night on John spends every night in Sherlock’s bed.

 

 

 


	4. smashing spiders

Precisely two years after his supposed death Sherlock had come close, terrible close, to the real thing. He had been tracing a man back to England, and had been currently staying in the apartment that Mycroft had arranged for him the years before. Being in the same city as John, so close but yet so far away seemed to create laps in his judgment, and it had made him act unwisely and irresponsible. He had grown so impatient. Two years had already been spent, and he wanted to come home as soon as possible. _Preferably now_. 

He had acted impulsively, jumping in with both feet in what he should have known to be a trap, that being if he had taken the time to analyse the situation. He had come face to face with not one of his opponents, but nine of them.

Jumped and nailed to the ground, he could only see one possible outcome, and it did not end well for him. A simple bullet in the brain would be too much to hope for. These men knew exactly who he was, what he had done, and what he had currently been trying to do. Their eyes had been black and their bodies tense. They breathed revenge with each inhale and exhale. Every breath providing their muscles with more oxygen, creating and increasing their forceful punches that landed all over Sherlock’s body.

He had eliminated a great deal of their associates. Diminishing their resources, and taken away some of their power. Power that they were currently taking back, with each pressing punch. Not only did they want him dead, they wanted to beat the life out of him. They wanted him to pay.

Death was in the air. Sherlock did not struggle. He did not try to escape. He knew that even if he could manage to get away, it would not do him any good. They had seen him in the flesh. If he left now, the kill order would resurface, and John would die. So instead he did the only thing he could do. He just laid there, perfectly still, taking every punch they threw at him. Doing so simply because if you cannot do anything smart, then you can at least do something that is right.

It was getting harder and harder to breath. He wondered how much longer it would take. His mind had already given up, yet his body kept fighting for survival. He was in pain, but did not flinch, did not move one muscle. His face was firm and the lips pressed together. No sound of agony would break through. He still held his eyes open, glaring at his captors. Almost like a final insult, daring them to try to break him. They would not succeed. He would never give them the satisfaction. Never make a sound.

His eyes came into contact with one of the large men who were hovering above him. The man had clenched his fist and raised his arm, preparing for what Sherlock could only hope to be the final punch. Suddenly something changed. The man’s eyes turned blank, the spark of life was drained from them in an instant. And the heavy set man fell forward landing on top of the detective, making it even more difficult to breath.

There were gunshots followed by angry screams, and before Sherlock could fully process what was happening around him, he felt someone taking a hold of his arms, dragging him up and towards the exit. _Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought. _He must have had some of his people tracking me_. Giving a new nicer tone to the phrasing big brother is watching you. His brother’s lack of tolerance for the word and meaning of privacy would in any other situation infuriate him. Every silver lining has its touch of grey, or red at this occasion. But a silver lining none or less. Thanks to Mycroft.

Sherlock had been so sure of his ending. He had embraced it. Never in a million years had he anticipated a rescue, nor being carried away to safety. His train of thoughts continued and he remembered that they had seen him. They all needed to be either killed or captured. _The same rules still applied_. “There were nine of them” Sherlock mumbled to the man currently carrying him towards a black car. The stranger nodded in response, showing that he got the message while opening the door to the back seat. He carefully placed Sherlock on the seat, closed the door and tapped three times on the side of the car. The chauffeur responded immediately. The engine started in a heartbeat, the car speeded up driving away and towards safety.

Sherlock’s chest hurt, actually his whole body hurt, but his chest provided him with an intense and acute pain - that only increased when he tried to breathe normally. He felt dizzy, could not inhale enough oxygen through his small and rapid breaths. It was not enough, he felt out of breath the entire time, and his heart was beating fast, so much faster than usual, trying to pump oxygenated blood more quickly throughout his body. Sherlock felt his already closed eyelids getting heavier as his thoughts lost their clarity.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up a few hours later. His brother was sitting in the green armchair, which had been dragged across the floor and place at the bedside. Mycroft looked far from happy, as far as Sherlock could tell by the use of his eye that had not been completely swollen shut. Sherlock was about to speak, but Mycroft raised his hand in protest. Shutting him up before he managed to get one lousy word out.

Each breath Sherlock took was accompanied by a small cracking noise. Mycroft looked at him. “Punctured lung” he stated in a calm and collected voice. _Evidently,_ Sherlock thought. _No problem deducing that myself. I am not dense you know._ “Yes you are” Mycroft responded, having followed Sherlock’s face during his whole inner monologue.

“Did you not promise to keep me updated? Why would you not take assistance now that we are currently in the same city!” Was it questions that Sherlock was supposed to answer? Perhaps not right now, because Mycroft continued his rant. “To act alone, to jump in to a situation as you did would be considered incredible stupid. Even from someone with an average IQ. What were you thinking? Or rather why weren’t you? Never mind, do not answer that, because I already know the answer.”

As Mycroft continued on Sherlock felt the weight of his guilty conscience. He had been thinking, but only about himself. It had been his own selfish need to hurry, to finish as quickly as possible so that he could return to John. He had not once thought about how the choices of his actions could affect his brother. How it could affect Molly. His death would not be an easy burden for them. They care about him, and if he had died, then they would hurt. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten or suppressed that notion. And he had put himself in an unnecessary risk.

“You are not invincible Sherlock. You are my brother, and I know that we do not talk about or acknowledge our feelings. But you must know that I care about you. That I love you.” Mycroft uncomfortable shifted a bit in his seat as he spoke the last words.

Sherlock could not remember the last time or even if his brother had ever spoken those words to him before. What should he say? How to reply? Nothing seemed good enough, so he might as well start with the obvious. “You are right” not an easy thing to admit. “My choice of actions was flawed.” At these words Mycroft responded by clearing his throat.

 “Alright my choice of action was stupid, mindless, brainless, dense, dim, foolish.” And at that confession Sherlock is met with the beginning of a small smile. “Forgive me?” he finally asked.

They had both entered into unknown territory. -Unaccustomed with this sort of situation, and with the words escaping their lips. You could almost believe that they had entered some alternative reality because this behaviour towards each other seemed to go against the nature of their relationship. But it really was not that complex, their change in behaviour, the shift in their relationship could simply be explained by earlier circumstances. Every event from Sherlock’s fall to the one leading up to this. Sometimes the things that we cannot change ends up changing us. Sometimes for the better and sometimes worse. The point is that no one can go through such a life changing event, without being formed and shaped from it. No man can come out precisely as he was before it occurred. What transpired in the small apartment between the two brothers was merely a response, a chain reaction caused by the earlier events that had led them to this moment.  

Both men were aware of the shift, but neither acknowledged it. Instead Mycroft let out a loud sigh and nodded his head. He continued by telling Sherlock the answer to what he anticipated to be his next question. He told him that the nine men who almost stole his life now were either dead or locked away. And that there was no longer any threat to John’s safety. He also told his brother that five of the nine men had been recognized as associates to Moriarty.

This meant that his foolish actions actually had brought down five men from the network. Sherlock immediately started to calculate the time and the effort that his manoeuvre had saved him. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he felt Mycroft’s icy eyes observing him. _Right still a stupid risk. H_ e should feel only regret. Still, there was a small spark of joy mixing in with his guilt. At least his actions had not been in vain. And five men down more than made up for the time that he would lose, waiting for his injuries to heal.

Mycroft continued to talk. He told Sherlock about the doctor that had examined him, informed that he was a trusted friend. And that he had left his contact information if Sherlock had any questions or complications revolving his injury. Mycroft never mentioned the way the detective had been acting when he tried to get him to a hospital. He doubted that Sherlock himself would remember it, and it seemed irrelevant now.

Mycroft stayed with his brother for hours. They spent most of the time talking. Sherlock did not mind the substance of the conversation. After having spent the last two years in silence it felt good to have a somewhat normal conversation, He found himself interested in every word his brother spoke, even when he talked about such a tedious thing as his work. Sherlock remained silent for most parts of the conversation. Not because it bored him, or because he escaped into his mind. No, he was an active participant in the talk, or at least an active listener. He had a lot to share and tell as well. But his chest hurt when he spoke, and his cracked lip felt far from comfortable when he formed words, so that is why he did most of the listening instead.

As the hours passed Sherlock started to feel tired and in need of rest, he tried to hide it. But Mycroft being Mycroft immediately read it off his face, so he started to gather up his belongings, fetching his jacket and his trusty umbrella.

“I do not know if this needs to be said or not, but I intend to do so anyway.” He spoke. “I understand how important John is to you, and what you are prepared to sacrifice. I know and I understand.” His eyes looked kind, and his lips almost made their way to a small smile. Sherlock nodded in response, while running his fingers in small circles on the soft blanket currently covering his body.

“I am not asking you to stop. I am not asking you not to put yourself in danger” Mycroft continued. “The only thing I ask is that when you do, be prepared. Gather all the information, read your surroundings. Always do everything within your power to survive.” Sherlock looked up meting his brother’s eyes. They looked tired and a bit fearful if he was not mistaken, which he almost never was.

Mycroft was right again Sherlock thought. It did not need to be said. He had already come to the same conclusion. He needs to do what he cannot, not do. But he needed to do it as safely as possible, no more unnecessary risks. Mycroft needs a response now and Sherlock decided that he was willing to give him the right one.

“I will. I promise. Everything within my power.” With that Mycroft’s tensed shoulders relaxed, pleased with the answer and the new promise. He said his goodbye and marched out the door.  He was coming back though, he would visit Sherlock almost every single day for the weeks it took his body to heal. The weeks passed in rapid pace, and soon they again said goodbye for what would be another year.

 

* * *

 

 

Time did not make his yearning for John lessen. He was still the only consistent thought in the detective’s brain. When he slept, and when he dreamt he could his face again, almost feel his arms around him. Those nights were the best nights, followed by the worst mornings. When daylight broke and woke him from his slumber it felt like something was ripped from him with a brutal force. The walls around his heart crumbled in each blurry velvet dream he shared with John. The walls were down, because he wanted John to see him, to know him. He wanted him to feel everything that he was feeling. In those short fledging moments he opened up completely. Yes his dreams did account for the worst mornings, but still it was worth it.

People say that faith is believing in something when common sense tells you not to. Sherlock being a man of reason of logic and science oddly enough still had his faith. He had never lost it. Faith had been a kind friend, travelling along side of him for his entire journey. And with each new enemy, each obstacle he overcame it grew stronger. Now with only a handful of men from the Moriarty network left it were so powerful that he almost dared to think about the future.  

 

* * *

 

 

Months later and there he stood. He had done it. It was over. He was having trouble grasping that notion. Sherlock stood in an abandoned warehouse in the southern part of France. He let out a sigh of relief, but except for that there were no other sounds. The empty space was so quiet that you could hear the slightest shifts in the walls or off the roof of the building _. It is finally finished. I can go home. I can go home_ echoed again and again in his brain. He stood there alone in the silence for what felt like hours, but in reality were merely minutes. Letting it all sink in.

There had been an ordeal, a fight to the death, that sort of thing. And now, afterwards there was hope - no, correction now there was the confirmation of hope. _I can go home_ Sherlock thought once more. Letting the relief wash over his body, sending shivers throughout his limbs that made him tremble and feel weak in the knees. His hand covered by a black leather glove tightened its grip on the old, rusty and bloody knife currently in his grasp. He stared down at the body before him, the final threat, dead on the ground surrounded by a pool of blood. Three years it had taken Sherlock to get to this moment. Three years to sever every limb of the monster. Three years to cut every thread of the vicious web that Moriarty had left behind.

Images from the fight still lingered fresh in his mind. But he could not for the life of him recall how he got his hands on the knife. The other man had been strong and gained the upper hand early in the battle. Sherlock has a clear memory of when his opponent slides out the knife. And just as the next image flashes before his eyes, he feels a severe burn on the right side of his shoulder blade where the knife had torn apart his skin. He should probably get some stitches, but quickly dismisses that idea, there is no way he is going to waste precious time at the hospital.

He recalls his fists repentantly striking the man’s face and stomach. Sherlock remembers the hard kick to his stomach that had him flying across the room and slamming hard against the wall. So hard that by the sound of it Sherlock thought for a second that he had flown right through it. But how did he get to the knife? He tried to remember for a while longer, but then came to the conclusion that it did not matter. He was alive. He was finished. And he was going home to John.

With that thought he released his hold on the knife and it fell to the ground. All that could be heard were Sherlock’s firm and steady footsteps heading across the ground and out into the dim cold night.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been easy enough for Sherlock to get a hold of a plane ticket, one quick call to brother dearest and minutes later a first class ticket had magically appeared. One more thing to add to the list of things Sherlock should remember to thank his brother for. All that was now left to do was to return to the motel and collect his belongings. It would not take long though, because he always travelled lightly. It was one hour till boarding and time moving fast, just the way he liked it. He had spent what felt like an eternity waiting for this day and it could not come soon enough. 

He went through all the necessary security and baggage controls before finally arriving at his gate. He stepped on board the plane and found his seat. Sherlock knew that the reasonable thing to do now would be to rest, to try to sleep for the few hours that the plane would be in the air. He had been awake for days and could truthfully not remember the last time he had slept more than an hour. His body could really use the rest, not that his mind would allow it. It was far too anxious. During the years he had imagined himself returning to John. To talk to him, be in his company, to hold him, to be held by him, to feel whole again. He had created so many scenarios, gathered them up to play, pause and repeat as he pleased.

He had dreamt of home and all it included. But he had always skipped ahead, avoided to think about a vital part of his return;  _The homecoming itself._ Sherlock tensed at that thought. He needed a plan, a strategy. He could not just waltz back into John’s life and expect everything to be alright, to be like it was before. To John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was dead and buried.

As much as he wished for John to take him in his arms, squeeze him tightly and never let go, he knew that to be an incredible unlikely scenario.

_But God, how he wished for it._

Sherlock needed to let go of all thoughts of long hugs, soft kisses and other fantasies that he had let himself cling to over their parting. In his head, he had created this epic love story, and well, maybe in some ways it was just that. But what he now recalled was the fact that it was a one-sided love story.

His thought process was disturbed by a young female flight attendant who asked him if he was comfortable and if he needed anything. _I would be, weren’t it not for your disruptive ways_. Sherlock quickly thought. He was just about to open his mouth and retort with those precise words, but she had not really done anything bad. _At least not on purpose_ he decided. So instead he bit his tongue and pressed down the cruel remark. _Oh, how John would have been proud_.

“Water and some privacy would be nice” he responded instead, putting a specific emphasis on the word privacy. The blond woman looked slightly offended for a short moment, but then went to fetch him the water. _Why?_ Sherlock thought, he had simply responded to her question. Well, no time to dwell on that thought, back to the subject of John. _How to proceed?_ Should he just knock on the door? And what if John was not home, or worse, what if he were but would not let Sherlock in long enough to explain?

It would be morning once the plane landed and he had made his way to Baker Street. This meant that John would most likely be at work. _Perfect!_ Well, maybe not perfect, but most likely for the best. This way he could sneak into the apartment. Sherlock still had his old key and hopefully it still worked. To his knowledge John had never changed the locks. Apart from the phone call that he had made earlier in the night to Mycroft, Sherlock had not been in contact with neither his brother nor Molly for the past two months, which meant that he had not gotten any updates on John’s whereabouts.

He did check Johns blog every chance he got, but it had not been updated in Sherlock’s absence. Still, he doubted that John had changed the locks during these two months. But then something hit him. _He had not gotten any updates on John._ What if he had met someone? Moved on? That thought nearly knocked the wind out of the detective, but then he remembered that it should not matter. As long as he could have any part of John in his life, he was grateful, although he was not too keen on the prospect of having to share.

Sherlock’s mind drifted off to the last time that he had seen his best friend. Standing safely in the shadows, he had watched John by his grave. It had been a great risk, someone could have spotted him, but he had just needed to see John one last time. The sorrow had been visible on every inch of John’s body. Despite the distance between them, and even though John had his back facing Sherlock. Sherlock still saw it, he still sensed it. When John turned, shifted his body so that his face came into Sherlock’s view it took all he had not to run from his hiding spot, arms in the air screaming to John that he was there. That he did not need to be sad any longer. He wanted so badly to take away John’s pain.

He remembered John putting his hand on the gravestone, a final Goodbye Sherlock presumed. He still remembered John speaking words he could not hear, but so desperately wanted to. Sherlock found himself begging for a miracle, unaware of the fact that his bellowed blogger simultaneously was begging for one of his own.

John had grieved him. He had been put through a lot of pain only because he cared about Sherlock. The memory of the cemetery helped the detective make up his mind. He needed to get into John’s home, because right now with that specific memory lingering in his brain, he very much doubted that he would be allowed entrance if he were to knock on the door. If he were inside when John came home, then he would have a better chance to make him listen.

He did not think that John would throw him out of the apartment, but still it felt wisely not to dismiss the idea completely. If it came down to that, then Sherlock would still have the time to hopefully tell John enough to arise his curiosity, and maybe then get the permission to stay and explain. The most important thing was that he gained enough time to explain his actions. Once that was done, he would leave it up to John to decide their fate. Anger, punches, kicking, screaming or tears, he could and would take it all. For however long it would take. Because losing him was unthinkable. John had become his everything, and nothing would ever change that.

Sherlock tried to shake these new found feelings of anxiety. Tried to focus on the good parts, he was returning, that meant that he would get to see John again. Hear his voice, feel his presence, smell his scent and look into those emerald green eyes once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Time is a funny thing. Over the years it had moved so slowly that the detective sometimes had wondered if it had simply stopped. Now on the other hand it seemed to currently be moving in the speed of light, or maybe he was just so focused on the ongoing struggle between his own emotions to register that it did indeed pass in a regular fashion. What now felt like minutes had actually been hours. The plane had landed, and Sherlock had not even noticed. Yet somehow he had managed to get off the plan, gotten a hold of a cab and made his way towards Baker Street.

Yes, Sherlock had been going through the motions, his body on autopilot, completely unaware of his surroundings. That is until he finally had made it to that old familiar door. That was when his mind caught up with his body and he realized that the scenery had changed. That he was no longer sitting on a plane. That he was no longer sitting at all, that he was now standing and on very shaky legs. _Why were his legs shaking?_ Stupid thought, of course he knew why, but he really felt that he needed to regain control over his body. It had its own freewill at the moment, and Sherlock was not too thrilled about that. He looked up at the door before him. The same old familiar numbers staring back at him 221B. Behind that door was _home_ , the only place that had ever earned the right to proclaim that name.

He nervously drew one hand through the black curls while reaching down in the coat pocket for the key with the other. It was with fumbling fingers that he finally managed to grasp around it and pull it out from the darkness. Sherlock held his still clasped hand out before him, loosely unfolded his fingers to view the key in his now opened palm. This key, however was not only a key, it was so much more than that, just as the door before him was so much more than merely a door.

This door was the gateway, the passing from now back to then. - Allowing him a glimpse of his former life. For behind that door were the only remaining traces of his previous existence. Behind that door was proof of his memories. Behind that door lived the only true connection to then and now.

To this apartment and to the space which it held, Sherlock would forever be indebted. This place was the reason the he had gotten a flatmate, a _friend_. This shared home had granted him with the best times in his life. Had it not been for this place, and the spare bedroom it contained, then he would probably never have met John. Then Sherlock would have never gotten to know what it felt like to share a life with someone. To be connected with another human being. He would have never known what it meant, or how it felt to fall in love.

Yes, this home was something extraordinary, and the same goes for the silver key currently pressing against the palm of his hand. It was the key of all keys. It was priceless, because it allowed him to unlock the door. It let him regain access to a part of his old life that he had only been able to visit in dreams or memories. Maybe one day this beautiful home could again work its magic and provide Sherlock with new memories to store and cherish.

As Sherlock slowly opened the door, he was greeted with an all too familiar smell that instantly warmed his heart. _Home_ he thought, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It was with light and careful steps that he made his way to the living room area. The remains from a half-finished breakfast were placed on the table in front of the telly. The jam on the remaining slice of bread looked a little crisp, probably prepared and eaten of a few hours ago Sherlock deduced. John was not home, he had eaten his breakfast, well, most of it anyway and then left for work. _Good_ Sherlock decided because he needed time to calm his nerves and absorb his surroundings. He gently moved past his old chair. _John had kept it_ , he observed. And placed himself on the couch.  

John’s presences still lingered in the room. Everywhere Sherlock’s blue eyes shifted he could see him. All the different sensations in the room allowed his perception to become sharper and his memories clearer. Sherlock was mesmerized by the images currently overwhelming his mind.  Visions of him and John in their chairs drinking tea, talking, laughing clouds his thoughts, and he spends hours on the couch allowing the memories to wash over him.

A long time later he started to focus on the now rather than the past. The flat still felt so familiar, yet so different. The furniture’s had not been rearranged. Everything was still in place, but as Sherlock looked around, he noticed that the place looked cleaner than it had before he left. And that the living room felt bigger somehow. It did not take long for him to understand why. All his books, his things were no longer occupying the shelves or tables. Everything that had belonged to him had vanished. Everything except for the skull still decorating the mantelpiece.

Of course John would not have kept all of his things, it had been three years. It is simple logic, he had been dead, really no good reason for John to keep them. Sherlock quickly thought, ignoring the very illogical sense of defeat that this new knowledge brought forth.

He briefly thought about getting up and look into his old room, but decided against it. Even though the flat still felt a lot like home, it was also accompanied with a new unfriendly sensation that made the detective feel a bit like a trespasser. Like an intruder. He no longer knew where the lines were drawn, and he did not wish to cross any unnecessary ones.

He brought his knees up to his chest and remained seated. Minutes turned into hours and the sun began to set outside. _John was late_ Sherlock reflected while glaring out the window. But then suddenly a door opened and closed downstairs and Sherlock’s whole body stiffened. He could hear John entering and making his way up the stairs and into the hallway. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat when he viewed the turning of the doorknob. He popped up from the couch and stood on shaky legs as the door slowly creaked open.  


	5. what is, and what should never be

The world is always in motion, seconds turning into minutes creating hours. Day’s turns to weeks, week’s turns to month’s and month’s turns into years.  The season’s changes, the snow melts, the grass grows, the sun shines, the rain falls and the water freezes to ice. People change, they grow, evolve. Sherlock Holmes was years away but to John Watson it felt like days. He was on standby, stuck in one moment. -Wandering aimlessly yet stayed unmoving.

He wished for Sherlock to come back - to blow something up, to make some poor sod squeak with his deduction, to make fun of John’s jumpers, to shoot holes in their walls.  _John would even lend him his gun this time._ Sherlock had gotten himself in deep under John’s skin, without John even noticing it.  And John still caught himself on daily basis wishing to find cut off heads and fingers in his freezer each time that he opened it. He just wanted to see him. He just wanted to be close to him. And he wanted to say all of the things that he never got the chance to say. But he knew that it was a dangerous path for his mind to wander. He knew that it would not change anything, knew that he should not even allow himself to even think like that.

To an outside observer, it looked as though John was doing alright. He worked a lot, and had gathered up weeks’ worth of overtime. Not that he knew what he should do with it…a vacation was not something he was looking for. The trick was to keep going, to stay occupied. He spent time with Lestrade, at first they spent most of the time at home, sharing a six-pack while watching crap telly. But after Greg’s divorce, they had begun to go out, to meet up in pubs or bars. While John himself found no interest in meeting someone, he had nothing against helping his friend in this area. John could now proudly say that he was one hell of a wingman _that’s something to put on the résumé_.  At times he helped the yard with cases, but it was not how it had once been.

John had lunch with Molly at least twice a week. She truly was incredible. There was something, John was not sure exactly what it was, but it was easy to talk to her, he had even opened up a few times. Told her things he had never told anyone before. He knew how Molly had felt about Sherlock, maybe that was why it was so much easier to talk to her. That and the fact that she had reached out to him, then waited patiently until he was ready.

Most nights he had dinner with Mrs. Hudson, she seemed to have made it her mission in life to make sure that he sustained on more than cheap take-out.  She also dragged him along for Sunday shopping, and made sure to stock both his refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. John honestly did not know if the people closest to him saw that he was struggling still. He did his best to hide it, plastered on a fake smile, made unnecessary small talk and soldiered on.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a brisk November evening. John was seated by a small table nursing a beer, in a pup he could not even recall the name of. As to why he was still there he could not tell you. Lestrade and John had made plans the other day to meet up, indulge in friendly conversation, and share a couple of drinks. However, Greg had been called in to work, and John against his better judgment had decided to go alone.

It was not too late in the evening, but a few folks around had already started to become slightly intoxicated, which made them chatty and loud. John had ordered a beer, avoided the crowds and taken a window seat by the smallest table available.

He had often wondered about those kinds of people, even before he was one of them. The ones, who went out by themselves, spent the night alone and in silence. Never engaging in conversations, or sharing the joy with the rest of the visitors. Where many of them like him? Did the long to be alone in the company of others? Perhaps they had lost someone to? Did the mindless chatter, the warm laughter remind them of easier times? Had they come here to remember or to forget? _Had he?_  

Did they find what they were looking for? Did they know what they were searching for? Was there anything to find?

John stuck in thought failed to notice the woman heading towards him.  “Hello”

John looked up, there was a tall blond woman standing beside the empty chair at his table. “Hi,” John retorted. She was an attractive woman, lovely features, blue eyes, red lips, nice smile.

Why was she here? What did she want? John looked at her once more; she wore a red dress, had a coat in one hand, and a glass of red wine in the other. She seemed to be alone, had she just arrived? Why was she at his table? There were plenty of free seats in the pub. Was she hiding? Avoiding someone? John would not go as far as to call her presence disturbing, but it was not entirely welcomed either.

“So…what’s on your mind?” She continued, in a light tone of voice. _So not leaving then_. And who the hell starts a conversation like that? It is definitely not something that John would ask a complete stranger. In a different time in his life, he would not have cared what she asked him, he would have only been thrilled to be approached by a stunning woman like her. He would have felt flattered over the fact that someone like her wanted to know what he was thinking. Now all he managed was what sounded like a grumpy and annoyed “what?”

“Well-“she said, looking a tad unsure about how to proceed. “Looked like you were deep in thought when- and I disturbed you, so I guess I was just curious to know what you were thinking…”

“Honestly?” he asked.

With a broad smile she told him “sure”

“The meaning.” She looked confused, he continued. “The meaning of life-the meaning in life.”  Not afraid to sound stupid or presumptuous. Not worrying about scaring her off. Not thinking about how it sounded at all. She had asked and he was only answering.

“Those are two completely different things” She stated. Staying put, clearly not running away.

“Does not feel like it”

“What’s the meaning then? Come up with anything good?”

“No, drawing a blank” John muttered.

“Well, then you my friend, are completely screwed.” 

John laughed at that. The woman gestured at the seat next to his “May I?” John nodded, and added “By all means.” Why not, thought John, not remembering the last time he had engaged in a conversation with a complete stranger. Maybe this would do him some good. She seemed interesting enough, _should work fine as a distraction_.

Her name was Mary, Mary Morstan. She was a teacher, worked and lived in London. Had attended the University of London, where she had gotten her degree. She loves dogs, but apparently was allergic. She had no siblings, no family. Her mother had died shortly after her birth and her father had passed away a couple of years ago. And most importantly, she seemed to have no queries about opening up to a complete stranger. 

She was quite fascinating actually. John found himself engrossed in the stories she told. She seemed smart. She was charming, beautiful and funny. They talked, or rather she talked and he listened, laughed and slowly began to relax and enjoy the company. She hailed over a waiter and bought them two more drinks.

“So…” Mary said having finished her story about her student, the fish and the yellow balloon. Which had gotten more than a few laughs out of John. Having mostly done the listening part of the conversation, he now assumed the she felt it was his turn to take the mike for a bit. She jumped right in. “Bad break-up?” she asked, eying him and giving a sympathetic smile.   

“What?” he said questioningly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. _Where had that come from?_

“Earlier-that whole meaning of life-thing,” she seemed unsure of how to phrase it.  
“It seemed a little grim, and I just assumed-“she stopped again looking at him with slightly pink cheeks.

John’s eyes widened, his mouth formed into a circle “Oh…Its-“he tried. “Not a break-up” he finally got out. “It’s complicated,” he continued.

“Then enlighten me?” she said, but spoke it as a question, not demanding an answer.

She had told him a lot about her life. She had opened up and been honest. Maybe he should try it, he thought. Perhaps it would help to talk about _it_ with someone whom had not been there. -Someone whom had not known _him_ , whom had not known _them_. John did not know whether it was a good idea, or if it was the liquor making him believe it to be the case. But he decided to give it a try. If it all went to hell, then it would not matter, because he really did not know Mary, and he would never have to see her again if he did not want to. _Maybe that’s the beauty in talking to strangers?_ John really had nothing to lose here.

John began to talk, and he did not stop. He told her about Sherlock. She laughed, almost not believing that a person like him could exist.  John told her the story of how they met, about the cases, and about his blog. “Sherlock Holmes” she remembered, telling John that she had read about him in the papers a few years ago. John nodded, “I’m getting to that,” he told her.

When he started at the end she bought them two more drinks for them each, stayed quiet and listened to every word he spoke. When John was done, he gave her a small, sad smile. He took a deep breath. “It’s almost three years ago now- next month-“the words died in his mouth, he took a sip of his beer, it tasted bitter.

“You loved him” it was not a question. And for the first time John acknowledged it for real. He nodded his head, confirming it.

“It never really goes away, does it?” Mary shook her head, reached over the table and traced her fingers against John’s hand. He did not know why he had asked that, why he had suddenly relied on her for answers.

Mary was skilled. She changed the subject, but stayed on the topic. And before John knew what had happened, he was going over cases, explaining them. -Telling Mary more about Sherlock’s brilliance and also more about his ignorance. “But it’s the solar system!” She exclaimed laughing, hands in the air trying to gesture the absurdity. John joined in with a chuckle of his own. Then he spoke of Baskerville and she asked if he ever accepted drinks from Sherlock again. John laughed at that too.

They talked for hours. The place started to thin out, most of the visitors making their way back home.

When one of the workers informed that they would be closing in about thirty minutes John looked up and caught Mary’s gaze. There he saw it -their whole life flashing before his eyes. He saw them going on dates, laughing, sharing secrets, sharing a bed. He saw her thrilled when he popped out an elegant engagement ring. Saw a small ceremony, Mary dressed in a gorgeous white gown with a stunning smile on her lips. He saw a house outside of the city, with a cliché white picket fence. They had two children, a boy and a girl. He did not read them bedtime stories, instead he told them about his adventures with the detective. He saw them grow old together- _The teacher and the doctor_ \- happily ever after.

John saw everything he had once thought he wanted, but that story could only end in one of two ways. He could spend his life with Mary; use her to make him feel again. Keep her in his life; make her live her life in the shadow of Sherlock Holmes. Force her to become his substitute.  He would not do that to her, would not do that to anyone. It would not be fair. There was one other option though, moving on, letting go. For a brief moment he saw himself living his life with Mary, thinking less and less about Sherlock. Thinking less and less about what he had lost. He saw himself forgetting.

If he went down that road, then he could get what he always thought he had dreamt of, but forget who he had become. The thing was that John did not like the man he saw in this fantasy. The thought of letting Sherlock go made John’s old dreams turn into nightmares.

He would never forget, would not let go. _Never._ So when it came down to it, it was not about limited choices. There was no choice. Mary was wonderful, but they could never be wonderful together.

John decided then and there that this was the first and the last time he would see her. But before they went their separate ways he just had to ask “Out of everybody in this place, why did you walk up to me?”

“Honestly?” She asked, repeating his earlier question. He nodded, almost laughed as he tried to mimic the smile that she had given him just a few hours ago.

“I guess I was intrigued.”  Mary stated, with a shy smile on her lips.

“By what?”

“By the smile on your face, and the sadness within your eyes.” There it was then, plain and simple, the evidence that he was not as skilled as an actor as he had hoped to be. But he was glad in some ways. He was grateful, that they had met. Thankful that she had chosen the seat next to his.

The pub was closing so John got up from his seat, to shake her hand –to tell her goodbye. He reached out his hand, but she ignored it, and instead wrapped her arms around him. “If memories are all that remains” she whispered in his ear, “Then at least pick the good ones.” Whit that she let go and took a step back.

“Goodbye John” she said.

“Bye” he repeated.  “And thank you.” She smiled at that, waved her hand and walked down the street and out of John’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

The following weeks John contemplated a lot over what Mary had told him that night. It was definitely good advice. What he had learnt that evening reminiscing about Sherlock was that remembering the good parts felt nice. Warmed his heart, had even made him laugh. When thinking back at Sherlock he had always ended up in that same place, but Mary had reminded him that there was so much more. Memories did not necessarily need to haunt him. He had wonderful memories of his friend, and those were the once that he should have been focusing on. -The once that he was now going to concentrate on. Because memories are a form of holding on, to the person you were. To the people you love. To the things you never wanted to lose.

He came to the conclusion, that maybe he was one of the lucky ones. There had never been, nor would there ever be, another one like _him_. _That mad brilliant bastard_ who had made John’s life, a life worth living. He, normal, average, not so special -John Watson- the everyday man had been deemed worthy enough to not only be in his presence, but also be his friend.

Yes, he had been friends; no _best friends_ with someone who could make the word extraordinary seem like an insufficient term to declare his brilliance. When he was around it was like the lights went dim everywhere else. Even the worst day with Sherlock had been better than the best day with anyone else. How could John be anything other than thankful for the time he got to share with Sherlock? It was worth the heartache.

No matter what the out-come had been, the time they spent together would always be there. He would always have that. No one could ever take that away. They had walked the battlefields of London together. John had not only walked beside him, he had walked with him. John might not know who he was now…but he would never forget who he had been then. He would always remember. It would always hurt, but it was a price he was willing to pay.

 

* * *

 

 

When John accepted to cover an extra shift for a colleague, he did not know what he was postponing. When he later made his way home, he did not know who or what was waiting patiently for him at 221B. When he walked up the stairs, he was still unaware that someone else had heard the seventeenth step squeak. When he cracked the door open he still had no idea of the fact that his life would change in an instant. It is profoundly strange how fast emotions can change.

Strange things may come to pass, when truth is a lie. What seemed impossible suddenly is plausible, and love can vaporize within a blink of an eye.

John was tired physically and mentally. It had been a long day and an even longer evening at the clinic. All he wanted to do now was head straight to Sherlock’s bed, curl in under the covers and let sleep take him.

When he entered his home, he felt it. Call it intuition or whatever else you may. But John just knew without the need for conscious reasoning, before looking that he was not alone in the flat. It is truly amazing how time slows down in situations like this, how many thoughts can be processed within one fraction a second. First thought was intruder, second was Mrs. Hudson, and the third was about the gun in his nightstand. There was countless other such as protect what is mine, why are you here, a rant about every possible person whom might have a reason to be in his home late in the evening, while he was at work; Mycroft obviously making that list.

But when John looked up there was suddenly only one thought crossing his mind. _Impossible!_

There was a slim dark silhouette standing beside the couch. __It can’t be.__ The light from the windows was enough to make out the some details; a man, tall, long coat, scarfs, dark curls. __Impossible! Impossible! Impossible!__ John instinctively  flicked on the lights. There was no doubt to what he had seen, or rather who he had seen. His dead friend was standing in front of him. John closed his eyes.

John was shocked to say the least. This was insanity. Had he completely lost it? Mental breakdown? Hallucination? _No. he knew himself, he could tell the difference._ He had seen Sherlock before countless of times, this was different. It was real. _But it can’t be!_ Alright, how to stay sane inside insanity? _Think, damn it! Think!_

So... Sherlock Holmes back from the dead? It was definitely improbable, but was it impossible? _-_ _He is Sherlock Holmes;_ _there are no limitations to what he can achieve_.

Now there was a brief moment of joy that washed over him. _Sherlock._ Sherlock was there, alive. John had never thought he would ever get the chance to see him ever again. _He is here. He is back._ Relief washed over him, but then…then his brain caught up, reminding him of some bitter truths. _Over three years_. _Think about what you went through. What he put you through_. _He lied, he hurt you, and he left you._ The meaning of this creeps upon him, he formed his hands into fists and took one step closer to Sherlock. _He is not your friend_.

He wanted to break something. He wanted Sherlock to hurt, the way that he himself had been hurting. He wanted to make him feel it all. He wanted Sherlock to understand what he had done. He wanted to make him pay. He wanted to make him bleed. But if he stared now, then he did not know if he would be able to stop. So instead he stayed put. Nails pressed down so hard against his palms that they drew blood. 

To say that John was angry would be a severe understatement, almost an insult to the word itself. He was far beyond that. He felt infuriated, enraged, inflamed. But not even those words felt enough to describe the pure rage that beamed through the doctor’s embodiment.There existed no words that had the power to describe what he now felt for the man standing by the couch in his living room. He gave Sherlock a quick glance, afraid to feast his eyes upon the man he had spent the last three years of his life mourning. 

Moonlight shimmered through closed curtains radiating light, and casting uneven shadows on the trellis pattern still decorating the living room walls. John quickly looked away, tightened his fists and stared down at the old black rug beneath his feet. The glance however, only a second long had been enough. Dark curly hair, astonishingly sharp pronounced cheekbones, and partially separated thick lips. Had now burned and festered as a permanent mark in John’s memory. The detective standing before him was still the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on, but he was no longer the man he knew, nor was he the man John once thought he had known.

John had loved Sherlock Holmes, he had loved him in every way a human being could ever love another. He had done so for years, and had thought he would continue doing so till the end of his days. The simple truth of the matter was that this person did not exist, had never existed. He felt his stomach flinch with the realization. He felt his anger, his rage crumble and slowly start to vanish. He felt the numbness he had prayed and wished for finally taking control of his mind, body and spirit.

The city was loud and obnoxious, with its blissfully content couples and lively laughing residents already walking its streets.  Many of them, presumably on their way to one of the many fine restaurants or bars the great city of London had to offer. It was after all a regular Friday evening, and people were going about with their everyday lives. In the apartment of 221B Baker Street, it was an entirely different story. The silence was deafening, and for a fraction of a second John thought it would go on forever.

It would not though, he soon realized as he heard Sherlock clear his throat and inhale a severe amount of air that could easily fill up his lungs completely.

John knew he only had a moment to emotionally prepare before Sherlock’s deep and smooth voice would penetrate the barriers of silence that had been building from the second John had walked through the door.

He searched inside himself, trying his hardest to resurface the feelings deep within, then it hit him, there were no emotion to find there. What he now felt could only be described as a lack of feeling. There was nothing, he could not care less even I he tried.

“John.” A soft and unsure voice, suddenly spoke. So it began John thought as he raised his head.

Green eyes meeting icy blue for the first time in three years.


	6. what a resurrection really feels like

Sherlock felt baffled, and quite frankly, scared. He had observed and followed John’s reactions to his sudden reappearance, he had tried to notice and trace, even the slightest movement in his body. It had started out with anxiety and alarm, _obviously!_ Who would not be alarmed if one sensed the presence of an unknown source, an uninvited guest or an intruder in your home late in the evening? His body had simply reacted to it. It was the classic fight or flight syndrome and John’s whole body had prepared to fight; adrenaline pumping, rapid heartbeats, sharp breathing and muscle tension.

After that came shock and confusion, the struggle had been written across his features and Sherlock could almost hear the wild battle inside John’s head. Disbelief and perhaps even a touch of joy was what had followed. For a second it almost looked like John was going to smile, his lips had begun to move upwards and his wonderful green eyes had become radiant, clearer –brighter in so many ways. Sherlock did not delude himself into believing that John’s emotional roller-coaster ride would come to a stop at that specific emotion, yet he could not keep himself from wishing for it.  Whatever trace of joy or happiness that John had felt had not lasted long, and had soon been followed by anger and hurt, the light stripped away from his eyes, which instead became dark with fury.

Sherlock was not sure he had caught all the telltales John’s body was revealing, since he was having trouble focusing. John Watson was actually standing there, right in front of him, only a few steps away.  It demanded a severe amount of self-control, to keep himself grounded, to keep himself from running forward and throwing his arms around his beloved friend.

The sight of John made his heart skip a beat. His mind got cloudy and he found himself thinking and dreaming about the way he wished John would react, rather than the way he did. He spent too much time analysing parts of his body, specific parts of his movements. John looked beaten and tired, like he had not slept in ages. There were dark circles under his red eyes, his cheeks were hollow and he had lost weight, enough to be noticeable despite the loose sweater that he was wearing.  _Not been taking good care of himself then._ His face looked weary, there were new wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. He had the beginning of a beard, not because he wanted to grow one, but because he had neglected his shaving habits.

He looked like someone whom had given up on life. More than anything, Sherlock wanted to embrace John, to wrap himself around him. He wanted to be John’s refuge, he wanted to chase away all of John’s pain, and he wanted to heal all the wounds. But how could he make that claim when he was the one who had inflicted them in the first place? Sherlock’s eyes had lingered a bit too long on John’s pink lips, and he realized that he must have missed something rather important, because when the doctor’s eyes finally caught his again; Sherlock did not recognize them.

 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock was now afraid to raise his gaze, afraid to meet John’s eyes, afraid of what he would find in them. Instead, he chose to focus on his own shoes bespattered and ruff around the edges, the leather dry and cracked. They still retraced small clues from the years that had passed. If one were to look- close enough that is, they could find traces of blood smeared on the left shoelace that would recall to one of the many previous night’s caught in battle. He had fought, killed and bleed from the theatre of war for three years now. He had done so single-handedly for one purpose and one purpose only, the man standing before him now, whom he no longer dared to look in the eye.

He waited, gathering courage, searched his brain for the right words, and just as he was about to open his mouth he heard John speak his name. “Sherlock” he said “surprised to see you here alive and well.” The well part being a bit of an overstatement Sherlock quickly thought subconsciously lifting his right hand too protectively rest over the large boot- shaped bruise that had formed on the left side of his stomach. He had been foolish, and had unwisely underestimated his last opponent, given him the opportunity to get in more than a few punches. John’s unfamiliar tone of voice matched the eyes that had Sherlock’s body running chills down his back and made his stomach twist and turn into knots.

What had happened? Where had John gone? He had been there a moment ago. _Fragile, damaged and broken, but still there, still hanging on_. How could he have lost him? How will he find him again?

 

* * *

 

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He knew he had to do something, say something, this was a crucial part of their history, their future, and it could be defined by this moment. It had to be done right. He had to make this right. His plan still remained the same; he needed to get John to listen to him.

He took a step closer to John and slowly began uttering his second and third word for the night. “I can-” he was immediately cut off by John’s voice. The fourth word only spoken in his mind… _explain_.

“So…Mycroft knew all along then?” _how did he know that?_ Sherlock nodded in response. John had not seemed to appreciate his voice for the moment, so perhaps it was wise to try a quiet approach.

Yes Mycroft had helped him. Sherlock would not have been standing here today, had it not been for his brother. For Mycroft’s help, for all of his support Sherlock would forever be grateful. Things were different between them now; it was funny how a disaster like that had been exactly what was needed to bring the two of them closer to each other.

“I guess now I understand why Mycroft was so keen on paying for your half of the rent” John stopped for a moment, as if the words he had spoken had triggered another thought. “And why he never had the time to come by and collect your boxes.” _Apparently it had_.

Wait a second, had he heard that right? His things were still here?

Sherlock did not really know what to make of that, all he knew was how incredibly happy that tiny bit of information made him. So…John had not gotten rid of his things. Neither Mycroft nor Molly had mentioned it, and Sherlock had not bothered to ask, they were just things after all, material objects that should not hold much value. But if they were in fact meaningless, then why did the knowledge about John keeping them, saving them feel so good? _Although_ , John had said that Mycroft was supposed to have picked them up, so maybe John had not gotten rid of his things, but he had not wanted to keep them either.

John seemed completely unaffected by everything, as he removed his coat, and walked over to his old armchair and slowly sat down. Sherlock on the other hand was stuck on his still trembling legs, afraid to move a muscle.

An uncomfortable silence crept upon them, _not that the situation before could have been described as anything near comfortable._ But now, if even possible; it felt worse. Sherlock decided to try again, to break the silence, and this time he added an apology. He took another deep breath and said. “John I am sorry, listen I can-” he was cut off again.

“No need to explain,” John quickly stated. “All your things are in your old room. You can stay if you want to. I suppose it is just as much your place as it is mine.”

Had John just said that he could stay? Sherlock did not know what to make of that statement, he had not been prepared for that. To be honest, he had been expecting to be thrown out the moment this conversation came to an end, another thing to add to the list of things that did not seem to make any sense what so ever. The wise thing would probably be to leave, to let John adjust to the idea of Sherlock being alive, but he could not bring himself to leave, not when he had just gotten here, and especially not when he had been granted permission to stay. Besides, if he stayed it would increase his chances to get John to hear him out.

Sherlock looked at John, his face is completely unreadable. Sherlock had so many questions.

_Why was he not screaming? Punching him? Why was he not throwing him out?_

John’s statement was logical, but felt strange. How Mycroft had managed to convince John to accept help with the payment remained a mystery. _Okay, so maybe he was being modest, he already had a couple of ideas, or maybe five ideas about how Mycroft had gone about to fix that_. John was a proud man, and would not welcome charity, but then again Mycroft could be very persuasive.

This was bizarre; the way John was reacting, or rather the way he was not. Sherlock was lost. He had no idea how to read him, or how to get the old John to resurface. Words had obviously not worked. He did not seem interested in his explanation or apology, so instead Sherlock decided to try another approach. He looked up, searching for John’s eyes; willing him to look up at him, not only look but to actually see him. They had done it lots of times before, stolen glances, channelling emotions and messages by simply staring into each other’s eyes.  
  
John had always been able to read and understand Sherlock in that way. He had always felt loved whenever John’s eyes had met his. He knew he had trouble with feelings and emotions he did not especially care that much for them. But every time John had looked upon him, he had felt warm, special and valued. And he had known that he’d meant something to the doctor, and he had known that he had finally found a friend in this world. Sherlock wanted to feel those things again. He wanted John to look at him with those eyes again.

Sherlock thought back to the night, the _beginning of the end_. He had pointed a gun to John’s head, and John had thought it was a fine idea, complete trust; that was how it had been between them back then. They had run cuffed together through the London streets, but they had been bound together by more than just metal. Sherlock could have reasoned that when he had asked John to take his hand it had been because he had needed John to speed up. He could blame John’s short legs for their handholding, but truth be told, he had wanted it, and he had needed it. 

John’s eyes caught his, and he tried so hard to show him, to earn that unique band back again, but it did not work. John looked into his eyes, but he did not see. _Perhaps he did not want to see._ Sherlock felt the hopelessness take him over. It felt as though he was falling into this black abyss, with no way out. He felt tears burning beneath his eyelids; his eyes watering with unshed tears. That is when John decided to speak once more. “Mrs Hudson will be pleased to know you’re back“

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock let his mind wander to the sweet older woman, who had always been there for him, accepting _or well, tolerated_ his mood swings, his experiments and his sometimes _often_ -rude behaviours. He now understood how much he had taken her, and her kindness for granted.  He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard John’s steady steps walk by him, heading up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

There he was left, standing alone in the dark living room wondering how he ended up there. Just a few hours ago, he had been filled with hope and expectations; the hope of a warm embrace, of a long talk filled with explanations that were accompanied by tea, and later followed by the acknowledgment of his feelings; the hope that when he told John about missing him and thinking about him constantly, John would simply state that the feelings were mutual, that he had missed Sherlock as well and that he was now happy to have his friend back. Those had been the detective’s hopes and dreams, but never his expectations.

He had anticipated anger, screaming and curse words followed by a good old fashion punch in the face. Perhaps even a broken nose.  The anger he could have understood, would have been able to handle. Heck the anger he would have deserved after what he had put his friend through. Yes, anger would have seemed like the most plausible scenario, but he had not left out the chance of other sensations like hurt, sadness, discomfort or confusion. The lack of reaction on the other hand, he would have never envisioned.

But that is John Watson, the constant mystery, he never really does or react to things the way that Sherlock expects him to. That is what makes him so extraordinary, it is what got Sherlock interested in him in the first place, that is what separates him from the rest of the world’s dull population.  

He thought about how things had been. Life before he left. How even in the darkest hours there had been light, because John had been there with him, by his side. _What if he leaves for good?_

Sherlock let out a breath he did not know he was holding, and slowly made his way towards his bedroom. He stopped in front of the door, hesitating shortly before he lifted his hand to grasp the doorknob, turned it at gently cracked open the door. The room smelled of tea, Earl Grey lavender, if he was not mistaken. It also held another distinct smell - _John_ he thought. His whole room smelled of John.

Sherlock felt his hands shaking, his fingers tremble and his knees buckle. He dropped to the floor, with his back tilted against the doorframe. He bent his knees, clasped his arms tightly around them, and rested his forehead on top of them.

The lack of food and sleep, combined with the various injuries on his anatomy and the emotional overload had begun to take its toll on the detective. He needed to think, to concentrate, to visit his mind palace, but his body would not let him. Instead, he lifted his head, and let his gaze wander around the room.

There were boxes neatly stacked upon each other occupying a large area of the floor. The walls looked the same, still decorated with a number of paintings. The neatly made bed with its wide oak frame, was still in its right full place. The shelves, the lamps and the oak chair matching his bedframe were still located in the same exact spot as they had been the day he had left.

There were no traces of dust in the room, _cleaned recently_. The sheets were wrinkly, _previously slept in_. They had also lost colour, _washed repentantly._ Each box looked stale and worn down, they had been _opened and reopened several times_.

The conclusion to be made from all of this was that John had spent a lot of time in this room, had even slept in Sherlock’s bed. One might reason that it could be because Sherlock’s room was bigger; John would have had more space in here. One might claim that Sherlock’s bed was both softer and wider so that would explain why John spent his nights there. But if that would have been the case, then why had John not moved in to this room? There were not any traces of John’s things in the room. Should he not have been more comfortable with at least his own clothes in the closet? Had it not been troublesome to walk upstairs every time he needed a clean shirt, or when he needed to change out of his pyjamas? There was only one reason for John to stay in Sherlock’s room – _sentiment._

Did this mean that John had missed Sherlock as much as Sherlock had missed John? Had he still longed for his company? And if this was true, then it meant that Sherlock had underestimated John’s devotion to him. Sherlock had assumed that John would have missed him, grieved him, but that he would have moved on, lived his life, met new people to share his time with. Sherlock had hoped that their relationship would have been strong enough to repair, rebuild on his return. He had hoped that there would still be room for him in John’s life. But if John had still been stuck in grief, unable to move forward, then would that not make Sherlock’s deception burn even deeper? 

Had Sherlock’s resurrection lead the way for a new John to arise, had John been reborn out of grief and hatred? But if that was the case, then why was he neither angry nor hateful?  Why had his reaction been to not react at all? It was maddening, and it was wrinkling Sherlock’s brain. In this case any reaction would have been superior to none at all.  

Sherlock heard John’s footsteps from upstairs, heading to the bathroom, turning on the faucet, brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. Sherlock sat in silence, listening. To have John so close but yet so far away was devastating. He contemplated the thought of going upstairs, to try and talk to John once more, but the thought of having a door slammed in his face or something even worse, made him quickly dismissed the idea. He was too scared of what could happen if he did, too afraid to meet this new John, the John who went against everything he knew about the old one.

Sherlock did not know how long he sat on the floor, but when he finally had gathered enough strength to stand up and remove his shoes, coat and blue scarf he could hear John tossing and turning in his sleep. Heading towards the bed, his fingers caressed the sleeve of his jumper, or rather John’s jumper. The same jumper he had asked Mycroft to deliver to him, years before. The whole act reeked of sentiment, he knew that, but did not care one bit. A sentimental fool was what he had become, at least when it came down to his blogger.

The room was cold, _had it always been like this?_ He was shaking and his teeth chattering. He let out a deep sigh, and fell into bed. The pillows, the sheets all smelled of John. He curled into the covers and inhaled deeply. And he tried, without much result, to increase his body heat.  His last thoughts, before he finally drifted off to sleep were of _his_ John. He would make it up to him, he would get him back - tomorrow he would begin to make things right again.


	7. comfortably numb

Morning had broken the bright rays of sunshine beamed through the window glass. Dust particles visible like diamonds danced in mid-air. A particular blond man slept, caught in a peaceful slumber, still blissfully unaware of his awareness.

John awoke gradually, the memories from the previous night still cloudy and had not yet resurfaced. He stretched out in the bed, ridding his muscles of some of their tension. His eyes were still shut, and he felt well-rested, having acquired a full night’s sleep, which frankly was incredibly rare, one might even go as far as to call it impossible these days; since John cannot even remember the last time it had occurred. But something felt off though, something was different… _no many things were_.

The pillows, the cover, the bed…he took a deep breath, even the air were at odds. As he cracked his eyes open, the first thing they came across was the sharp long-speared instrument hanging on the wall opposite his bed. _Wait one second! His bed? Why is he in here?_   John never slept in his room; he had not done that in a very long time.

He remembered the day he had put up the harpoon on his wall. It had been before he had dared to enter Sherlock’s bedroom. It had been when he still used his own bedroom to sleep in every night. He had wanted something of Sherlock’s in his room. The violin had seemed like the obvious choice, but it had felt wrong to disturb its place. The instrument belonged in the living room. It belonged in the place where Sherlock had put it. Where Sherlock on regular basis had used it to create beautiful melodies, sometimes at ungodly hours of the night; that being until Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had decided that it was time to pack it away, along with everything else. It had not mattered though, because John from that point on had spent every night in Sherlock’s room, with the violin next to the bed –making it the last thing he saw at night when he closed his eyes, and the first thing he saw each morning when he opened them. 

Returning to the harpoon, it had felt like a suitable choice. It reminded him of Sherlock, of how spectacularly mad life once had been. It reminded him of the abnormal life that had become their normal. Everyday had been an adventure. –Anything could happen- like per say Sherlock returning to the flat, blood-stained, grinning and with a harpoon in hands. It is safe to say that John had learnt from an early stage to always expect the unexpected. This was a time when John’s mind always specified on one particular memory of Sherlock, since John had trouble seeing his friends face without blood attached to it; he had tried to trick his brain, to switch out the memories. If he had to see Sherlock blood-stained, well then he would choose that day over the other each and every time.

 _Sherlock._..And just like that John knew why he was there. _Damn_. It had really happened; last night had not been some bizarre dream, it could not have been, because then he would have never awoken in this room. John heard Sherlock voice in his head. “Once you eliminate the impossible, _whatever remains, _no matter how improbable_ , _must be the truth_.” - _ Sherlock Holmes has returned from the dead.

He should be ecstatic right? Thrilled, walking around on cloud nine…after all he did get his miracle. How many people can say the same? But happiness is nowhere to be found. His wish had been granted, but it did not feel like it. John did not feel much of anything right now. _Why? How?_ _–was it shock?_ It did not seem like it. He can process everything, he remembers yesterday’s encounter perfectly, and that in vivid detail. He still recalls his realisation; one might call it a wake-up call…or perhaps it was the thing that finally put him to sleep. _Not quite sure yet_.

Was it dangerous not to care, not to be affected? –not affected might be a lie, because he was usually someone to care, and now it had stopped- let’s instead say not _feel_ affected. A low voice inside his head told him that this was bad, that this was not the way he was supposed to react. _Well, how is he supposed to react?_ How exactly is one supposed to react when one’s dead, _former_ best friend suddenly reappears in your life? It is his life; he is allowed to react precisely as he does. John did not want to question his reaction, there might not be any rhyme or reason behind it, but for now that was okay. It was not like this was something that happened every day. If someone had a guidebook, a manual or instructions to shine some light on this situation, then he would have gladly accepted it.

Endless times had he dreamt and fantasied about that moment, and not once had he ever imagined it going the way it had yesterday. Now that he has actually lived it, he wonders how it ever could have gone any other way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for him _and he’s feeling…?_ Dark clouds are closing in threatening the sunny sky. He cannot stay in bed forever. Time to get up, time to get out, time to move on. These are the cards he has been dealt, might seem unfair, but then again, no one can force him to play. He will not buckle, he will not break. Life goes on, he will too. John got up from his bed, gathered up some fresh clothes and headed towards the bathroom.

The clothes had been laid out in a neat stack upon the toilet. The showers hot streams flowed through his sandy blond hair, ran along his chest, his back, and his legs all the way down to his cold feet, slowly warming the cold skin. It’s nice there, in the shower, in the warmth, in the solitude. The bubbly soap cleaning is his skin, the water cleansing him. The smell of shampoo drifted through the room, creating the illusion of an ordinary morning. John is more awake now, more alert, ready to face a new day. 

John stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and started to dry himself off. The tile floor cold against his now warm feet. He heard someone moving around downstairs _so he’s up then_. He took the towel and ran in through his dripping hair. John put on his pants, then his trousers. He took his time, put on one sock, then the next. He was in no hurry, he could be a bit late. The mirror was foggy. He dragged his palm across it, wiping away the condensation. His hand went over it one time, two times…there it was, his reflection. He stared at it for a long while. When did he get so old? He looked tired, dark lines under his eyes, a few more wrinkles here and there.  He looked paler than he remembered. As he began to shave, he silently wondered about anger, if that was what he was supposed to feel now? Would that have been an acceptable responds to this madness? He stayed still for a while, waited…the anger never came.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was a slow walk downstairs, and into the kitchen. Sherlock was seated by the kitchen table. _Waiting?_ He was wearing pajama pants, a black loose T-shirt along with his blue dressing gown. John wondered briefly if Sherlock had started to unpack, or if he had just riffled through the stuff, to find some clothes. _Will he unpack later? Will his things once again be spread out through the different rooms in the flat?_

It was strange seeing him there, using the table for it’s intends and purposes.  There was a coffee mug in front of him, normally the table would have been covered with experiments and Sherlock would have been consumed by _the work_ … _Or it would have been completely vacant_.  Today apparently John had been gifted with Sherlock’s full attention.

 “Morning,” he said, but he did not smile. There is nothing to smile about. Sherlock returned the greeting and gave John a small smile, though, but he looked uncertain and quite uncomfortable. 

The room was filled with the sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee.  “There is coffee left, if you’d like some” Sherlock announced when John made his way towards the kitchen counter.

John shook his head, and started preparing some tea along with two slices of toast. It was not the most comfortable of situations. But John forced himself down in the chair opposite to Sherlock’s. Had absolutely nothing to say to them man. He just wanted to finish his breakfast as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there.  Sherlock took a small sip of his coffee; John took a huge sip of his tea. _Eat and leave. Fast_.

“We need to talk.” _Jumping straight in then_. Silence, then Sherlock continued. “You need to understand why-“ _why he did it_. That is where that sentence was going to end up if John allows it. He will not. There is not really any point to this. There is only one way this will go.

John does not need to do anything. He does not owe Sherlock a thing. Had he truly expect John to listen? To care about anything he had to say? Did he think that he could just waltz back into John’s life and start making demands? Things would never be the same. Sherlock should not expect them to. There was a time when John would not have denied him anything, but that was then, this is now

“I don’t need to do anything” John harshly stated.

It was always meant to end like this. John had learnt to survive without Sherlock, and now Sherlock would have to survive without John. He would not feel guilty about it. It had not been his choice. Sherlock had made this happen the moment he stepped off that rooftop. Time cannot be rewritten, they cannot change the past. Actions have consequences, and now they both had to live with his.

“That wasn’t – I did not mean it like that.” Sherlock said, looking disappointed, among other things. 

John did not dwell on it. He did not try to interpret Sherlock’s words, his weary face, his sad eyes or his low voice.  John did not need to, it was so clear. Sherlock wanted forgiveness, but John’s heart was cold. Closed off. He did not have time for this. He had things to do, patients to tend to and charts to read. John shrugged, put the last piece of toast in his mouth and left the table. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Work was…well, work was work. -Tiresome, stressful, but eventful. The day went on in a busy manner, and John was with a patient whom suffered from a heart condition.  Suddenly the man’s heart stopped. Time was speeding up. Doctors running, the defibrillator was pressed against the man’s naked chest, the wife crying out in shock. He was dead for thirty seconds, before they were able to bring him back. For thirty seconds the wife had to live in a world without her husband. The steady beeping from the heart monitor resumed, but it did not stop the woman’s tears from falling.  

John talked to her later, tried to tell her that he knew that it was scary, but that her husband was now in a stable condition. It did not help what he said; the redheaded woman would not stop crying. John decided to sit with her for a while. 

“It’s alright,” he said in a comforting tone of voice, placing a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 

She shook her head “He died,” she got out halfway between two sobs. “He died, and he left me.”

“Yes. He did. But he came back.” John ignored the voices screaming in his head, he argued against them. _This was different thirty seconds, three years… nowhere near the same. And besides, it’s not as if a heart attack is caused by free will, her husband had not chosen to leave._ “He came back, and that is all that matters,” he finally finished. This was different he told himself once more.

Sadness, was that what he was supposed to feel? He had already had more than a lifetime's worth of that emotion. He looked at the redheaded girl once more, she was drying her eyes now; at least he had been able to help one of them. His eyes had dried up ages ago, he had no more tears in him. He left her side, and returned to his other patients.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 After work John made a quick stop at the supermarket. He told himself that he was in desperate need of new groceries, _couldn’t have tea without milk_. He also convinced himself that he was in no way at all avoiding or trying to postpone his homecoming. The choice of this little shopping spree had not in any way been influenced by the knowledge about the tall, dark-haired man waiting in his home.

The store was packed with people. Normal people, living normal lives, doing normal things, his life would read like a story to them. Death threats, criminal masterminds and fake deaths. There was a middle-aged man with his young son standing in the aisle by the cereal, debating about which brand to buy. Could John have been one of them? He wanted simplicity; he wanted life to be easy. For the first time in John’s life he wished that he never would have met Sherlock. 

If it had been life’s twisted sense of irony that made the chip and pin machine dysfunction; he would not know. All he knew what that as soon as he tried not to think about a certain someone, life always seemed to throw him a curve ball, making it impossible not to draw the resemblance. He thought back. Should he feel nostalgic? Should he feel the bittersweet longing for days gone by? Should he look back with gratitude? No, no real reason for that, instead he gathered up the groceries and walked over to a different line, he could pay with cash this time.

When he arrived home, the flat was empty, but there was a note on the fridge that had Sherlock’s handwriting. John stared at the note. _Gone out to buy milk_ , it said. _Well, wasn't that swell_.  He left for three years without one _bloody_ word, but apparently he felt compelled to put it in writing when he headed out for 20 minutes. If John had not been so apathetic, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

He did not know why he took the note down, did not know why he was still holding it. He could not understand why his fingers clutched tightly around the paper, or why his left hand trembled. _Sherlock’s handwriting_ , this took John back. What he was now holding was in some ways a memory of a memory.

 He remembered those days, the inner turmoil and the confusion. He had been losing it back then, on the brink of madness, he had done what any sane man heading for insanity would have done. He had thrown himself into a project. -Created a mission, tried to find a new purpose.

He had spent countless hours going through Sherlock’s old notes and journals. Hoping to find something he missed, trying to explain the unexplainable. It had felt, well not good, but the closet he had come to any sort of feeling that was not sadness or anger. The feeling lasted for a while, or at least until the doctor had gone through every file, every experiment and every other piece of paper that contained the detectives handwriting. He came out of the experience empty handed, no answers for the questions he so desperately sought. And this had made him more bitter, if such a thing were even possible.  

What he should feel now was relieved right? Well, he was not feeling that either. It would have made sense if he were, because he could finally get all the answers. He could finally find out exactly what had happened that day. He could bestow the knowledge that he had thought would forever be lost in the shadows. He could tread out from the darkness, from the unawareness. The past John would have cried out in agony for present John’s ignorance. Not that present John would have had the ability to care that much about that.

John was stuck in a void, he had been pushing so hard against everything that had happened, and it had been a severe struggle just to keep going. Heartache, loneliness can be a major resistance. Then one day, he found out that he did not need to push any longer, and that might have been manageable, but that was not all. He also understood that all his efforts had been unnecessary. 

John thought that he understood so many things that he really did not. He had everything so wrong, but was for the moment to messed up to see things for what they really were.  

It is our tendency, as humans, when faced with an unknown situation, to assume the worst and throw a fit. But instead of throwing a fit, John came to a hasty conclusion and threw himself into the void. He did this because he became scared, and it was safer than to stay and to risk the chance of even more hurt. 

The void worked like the space between two realities. He could see them both, he could understand them, but he did not have to be emotionally involved. He was closed off. This did not necessarily have to be a permanent solution. And it came with a steep price, because you could not choose which emotions to discard. It was all or nothing. No joy without sadness. No calm without anger. No love without hate. But as for now, it was better to feel nothing, than to feel too much.   


	8. the enemy within

There are pacing footsteps and other noises coming from the living room. Not too loud, not too unpleasant, but still slightly worrying. Sherlock is curious to examine the reasons behind the racket, so he decides to go and have a look, and with a blink of his eye Sherlock finds himself in the dimly lit living room. The scenery is not right. There are boxes in different shapes and sizes surrounding him. _What is John doing with the boxes? And why is he running around in the dark?_ Sherlock does not like this at all; it gives him a funny feeling in his stomach.

John is busy, gathering up his things. He does not notice Sherlock. He is sorting out, and dividing their belongings, putting his own things in neat little boxes. “What are you doing?” Sherlock demands. John stops bent over one of the boxes and raises his head and shifts his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. _There are those eyes again_ ; the ones that John wears nowadays, new ones that he has required without Sherlock’s knowledge or approval.

“What does it look like I’m doing” John asks.  The question had not been formulated correctly, but Sherlock knows that John understands what he is asking. _Why is he taunting me?_ He can see what John is doing, obviously. But the question is _why is he doing it?_ He cannot do this. _He simply cannot_. It is not acceptable.

Sherlock walks over to John with quick steps. He grabs hold of the book in John’s hand and throws it as far away as he can muster. The book fly’s through the room, and collides with Sherlock’s microscope, glass slides and vials. Six days work falls to the floor. The vials break, but Sherlock does not care. Under no circumstance is that book allowed in that box. It is not going anywhere near it. John sends him an irritated glance.

John does not say anything, he just walks over to the spot where the book had landed, picks it up and puts it in a different box. Sherlock shakes his head, but John continues his work. Sherlock can feel the panic rising. _John is leaving._ Sherlock starts to unpack. He needs to undo this, and everything in the boxes needs to go back to its original place. They stay at it for a long while; John putting new things in the boxes, whiles Sherlock frantically takes them out. _Should I say something? Shouldn’t John?_   

“Why?” he finally asks.

“You know why!” John bites back.

And Sherlock does; now he knows. How could he have ever forgotten? But still, this cannot happen. He has to fix this. John cannot leave! “You can’t go!” he exclaims. “We can fix this. I can fix this!” _John can’t leave. He just can’t_.  Moriarty has beaten him from the grave, and Sherlock can swear he hears him laughing. John is still packing. _Why is he still packing?_  

“We can’t let him win” Sherlock mumbles and John hears it.

“So that is what _this_ is about then” John states, his movements getting faster as he shoves things into the boxes with more force. _I did not mean it like that. Really didn’t._ “It always is,” the lie role of John’s tongue and Sherlock knows John believes it. It is not about Moriarty, it is about John. John is what is important. Was then, is now, always will be. How can he not see that? But John is not stopping, he is speeding up. Sherlock has to do something, has to say something to put an end to this madness, because if he does not, then John will surely be gone soon.

“You are my best friend” Sherlock says as he moves closer to John, hopefully buying time.

“Thought you didn’t have friends” John remembers. Sherlock wishes that he had never said that, he had not meant it. He had still been new to this whole friend thing. He had _never had a friend before_.  Not really, not before John. There were so many things he did not have before John. So many things he did not feel before John. John needs to stay so that Sherlock can show him. Show him that he made Sherlock better. Show John how important and crucial he is to Sherlock.

 _John is not stopping. Please stop! Please!_ “Please stop! Please don’t go” John is not listening, and he is not speeding down. “Please don’t leave me” begs Sherlock.

At this John looks up. His features hard, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It did not do me any good to beg” John moves to the door, like he has forgotten what he was doing. _Maybe he does not care_. He is really leaving, going right now, without his things.

There is nothing that Sherlock would want more than to go back, to get John back, to have him and to keep him forever. Everything he had done was for John, to save him; if Sherlock tells him that, then maybe John will stay. Sherlock tries to, but John cannot hear it. He screams it, but John still does not hear it. There is no sound, Sherlock cannot hear it either. His lips are moving, but the sound evaporates into thin air before it can reach either of the two men’s ears. He cannot explain, for some unknown reason he is not allowed to explain. Without an explanation John will not stay, Sherlock knows this.

“Please don’t go,” he repeats. This time he hears it, and he knows that John does as well. “Please don’t leave me” _should he say it, dare he say it?_ “I love you” It is the first time that Sherlock has spoken those words to anyone. Ever. And the words are true, he does love John, he is lost without him.

Time stands still. _Please. Please don’t go_.

John moves towards him. _Right direction! Stay away from the door!_ He is now inches away from Sherlock. Sherlock is nervous. He does not know what to expect, does not know what John will say. When he hears the words fall from John’s lips he immediately wishes them away. Wishes them unsaid. “You’re incapable of that emotion” that is what Sherlock hears. That is what John tells him. John knocks carefully on Sherlock’s chest, not hard, not to hurt him, only to prove a point. The sound is unnerving. It does not sound like it is supposed to –it’s cold and metallic, and Sherlock knows it now, he feels it; He is no longer of flesh, blood and bone. He is metal, wires and oil.

“Can’t love without a heart.” John declares as he knocks once more on Sherlock hard chest. 

John does not leave through the door; he just disappears along with the boxes. There is no trace left of him. John is gone, for good. Sherlock is left crying tears that make his hard shell begin to rust. Repeating the same words over and over again “please don’t go, please don’t go. I need you!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock” someone was calling him, demanding his attention. “Sherlock, Sherlock!,” His name falling from the lips of a stranger. “Sherlock dear.” _Not a stranger then_. “Wake up!” hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

Sherlock bolted upright, breathing so fast, _too fast._ Hand on his chest. Heart beating quickly, _elevated pulse and a feel of wetness on his cheeks._ He shifted his head left and right, up and down… _living room, absents of boxes. Good, that’s good._

He was seated on the living room couch, with Mrs Hudson hunched over him, pinching his shoulders. Hands on his body, on his chest, it is soft and warm. It was irrational and unnecessary, but he just had to inspect; flesh, blood, heartbeat, _not heartless then_. Scared senseless for a ridiculous dream, he should have known better - should be able to tell apart reality from imagination. But it had felt so real.

Eyes darting everywhere, back and forth… _just to make sure_. They finally landed on Mrs Hudson. “Just a bad dream,” she told him. He must look awful, the dread shining through his eyes, manifesting itself as the monster it is.  Her hands clutched tighter “It was just a bad dream dear” she repeated.

Sherlock let his legs fall off the couch, feet placed firmly on the floor. He leant forward almost all the way down to his knees, and hid his head beneath his hands. He tried to regulate his breathing. A low sob escaped his lips. Had he actually allowed that to happen? And that in front of another living, breathing human being? He was shaking, but pretended not to notice. This was out of control, he was out of control, and he needed to calm down so that he could begin to think clearly. This was not like him! When did he become this? _He knew precisely when_. He needed to say something; he knew that he was scaring her and it was the last thing he wished to do.

“I’m fine-it’s fine” voice to shaky, anyone would have been able to hear that he was lying.

 _What was this?_ Shaking, hyperventilating, crying, and all because of a dream! Sherlock quickly and quietly wiped away the tears under his eyes. He felt ridiculous. Mrs Hudson interrupted his train of thoughts. “No you’re not.” She stated putting her icy-cold hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said. The cold hand sent a shiver down his spine. _Burning up, certainly did not feel like it._ He was freezing.

With his head still bowed down, he dried his runny nose. “You’re going to stay inside and rest for the remaining part of the day,” she told him, in that strict motherly tone one knows better than to disobey. Which was he was perfectly fine with, not as if he had any prior arrangements. “You’ll stay here, and I’ll fetch you a blanket, some hot tea, and a couple of ibuprofen” with that she wandered off to the kitchen, giving Sherlock some much appreciated privacy, and a chance to collect himself.

How long had he been out? How long had he laid there on the couch weeping in his sleep? Sherlock felt conflicted, a part of him was thankful that Mrs Hudson had found him and chased the dream away, while another part of him hated that she had seen him in this condition.  But then on second thought it could have been worse _, so much worse_. What if John had been at home? What if he had seen him like this? The thought was almost unbearable.

When had his body begun to seize control over his mind? He had always been able to control his sleeping patters, and now apparently he fell asleep anytime, anywhere. It might have been just an isolated incident, but still, he needed to be careful, needed to start listening to his body. _Just in case._

He knew that he was cracking up. He was not good with emotions to begin with, and now they were everywhere. He was frightened. He was slipping. Everything that he had thought he was had changed because of one man. What would happen if he left? Could Sherlock go back? Could he divorce himself from feelings once more? How on earth had he managed it in the first place?

Sherlock looked up just in time to catch Mrs Hudson making her way towards him, with a large and soft blanket in her hand. She draped it over his shoulders, all the way down to his feet. When finished, she eyed him, inspected him almost as if she was trying to sense his state of mind. She raised an eyebrow, frowned slightly, then suddenly there was a flicker in her eyes. “I’ll make you a sandwich as well.” She mumbled while walking off to the kitchen once more.

Sherlock stared at the old woman’s back. _Had she just?_   That glimmer in her eye, it had been comprehension. _Had she just read him like an opened book?_ He was pretty sure that he had managed to cool down to the degree that should have made him unreadable.

She had never been able to do that before. How many times had he been forced to tell her to be quiet? Hundreds of times he had been deep in thought, focused on a case, or an experiment when she had just waltzed in, talked and talked, completely ignorant to the fact that he needed to concentrate. He adored her, but the woman had never shown many talents in reading a situation. Was he that readable now? He had come to understand that he had lost the ability to suppress his emotions. But had he also lost the ability to keep them of his face? Sherlock could no longer read anything from John’s face, but what could John deduce from Sherlock’s? Though it did not necessarily have to be the case, perhaps Mrs Hudson had always known and just ignored it. He hated that he did not know.  But if that indeed was the case, then she was far more intuitive and clever than he had given her credit for.

His heart warmed by the thought of her. She was kind, she was nurturing, and she was understanding; _possibly in more ways than one._ She was the mother he never had. And no matter the circumstances, he felt his lips ghost a smile. Because she was there, she was alive. He had managed to save her.

 

* * *

 

 

When he had revealed himself to her, she had been angry with him. He had not expected anything else. At first she had been so baffled. Then expression pale as a ghost came to mind. All the coloure had drained from her face, and she had just stood there in the hallway, staring at him, with an “OH” shaped expression.

He had not known what to expect, was not sure what he should do. His instinct had told him to say something, but the earlier meeting with John had left him questioning if it _perhaps was better to let Mrs Hudson speak first._ Coming back from the dead had turned out to be really dreadful business. When had he started doubting himself? When had he become this lump of anxious energy?

He did not want to scare her, he did not want her to hate him, and most importantly, he did not want her to follow John’s reaction.

Fifty seconds they stood there face to face. Not a word, not on pep out of her mouth. But then something happened, he was still not entirely sure of what. But she re-emerged from the shock. Maybe fifty seconds were the precise amount of time she had needed to mentally process the ghost she was staring at.

Words danced off her lips. Words like “Sherlock- what-…heavens-dear lord” She had closed the distance between them and before he knew it, he was in her arms. Caught in a tight embrace.

The floodgates opened, she trembled and she cried against his chest. He could only assume that they were tears of joy, since she refused to lose her hold on him.

“Is this- am I seeing things?”

Sherlock shook his head, and added a “No” she saw him, she held him, she heard him. It should be more than enough evidence to deny insanity. She was bright; she would come to the same conclusion.

Apparently she did, because she pulled back. _Anger?_ The crack against his jaw confirmed his suspicions. Not once had he assumed that the only punch he would receive throughout this ordeal would have come from his sweet old landlady. A slap might have been expected, but a punch, well that had come as a surprise.

“Never do that again!” she said eyeing him. “You better have a real good explanation for this!” _He had._ “Three years”, he heard her mumble.

“Go on, explain!” she snapped. Those words had been such a relief. To be able to convey his side of the story, to be allowed to explain his actions. When he was done, she had not been angry anymore. She had told him she understood. She had told him that it was wonderful to have him back. She had told him how much she had missed him. Told him how much John had missed him.

 

* * *

 

 

And now here they were. She placed the plate in front of him, along with a steaming cup of hot tea. He thanked her, and invited her to sit down. He did not feel like being alone at the moment, and besides, he was most definitely certain that she would refuse to leave before he finished the meal.

“You look exhausted,” she announced. “When was the last time you had a proper night's rest? When was the last time you ate?” she continued. Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at this. He thought to tell her that he had more important matters to attend. To inform her that he was more than capable to care for himself. She mumbled something along the lines of all skin and bones, and he forced himself to keep his mouth shut and his eyes still.

“You have to take care of yourself.” She gave him a firm look. _A look that said I know best_. To protest seemed futile. 

“You died on me once. You are not allowed to do it again.”

His breath got stuck in his throat as guilt filled his insides. He did not know what to say. But then he looked at her, and saw a smirk, while he did not doubt the sincerity in her words; he understood that she held no resentment towards him. As he took a large bite of the sandwich, he realised what a clever move it had been to make him listen. Send him on this guilt-trip; to insure that he would take better care of himself. He could have been mad for her manipulative tendencies, but it had been so brilliant, that he only felt proud.

She handed him the ibuprofens, and he ate in silence as she sipped her tea. “Want to talk about it?” she finally asked. No, _not really, no_. He just shook his head. Silence took over once more.

John arrived home, said hello, but did not join them. He went upstairs, changed clothes, and then headed out once more. He did that a lot these days. Always going, he went home to shower, change clothes or sleep, but he never stayed longer than necessary. Sherlock let out a sigh as the door closed. Mrs Hudson glanced at him, and waited. _The wait was short lived_.

“I couldn’t put it back together,” he whispered. She reached for his hand, and he continued. “I thought I would have time- thought I had another solution. “ She nodded in understanding.

The next words were forced out of his constricted throat. “The truth is that he beat me…” _and it cost me three years, and now I don’t know how to fix it._ If only he had been a bit smarter, a bit faster. If only he had had the resources or the time to repair the damage. Mrs Hudson sat still and listened.

“You did everything you could. We are alive, you are alive, and you are back home. Maybe he won that day, but I would definitely say that you beat him in the long run.”

She was right, in some ways. Moriarty was gone, along with the rest of his network. Sherlock was just worried and scared. He wanted his old life back. He wanted John back. This John was like a stranger. It had only been three days, and he could not push himself on John. To give it time was the only reasonable option left. But it was not easy, because deep down in his stomach he had this nagging sensation, that this story would not have a happy ending.

He knew why he had done it. He knew that he had been right to do it. He would still make the same choice to this day. And he would pay the price, if it came to that. He just hoped he would not have to.

“He’ll come around, he just needs some time.” She said, sounding completely sure of her own words.

There it was again. _Time_ \- the healer of wounds, the fixer of things. Sherlock did not like to put their fate in the hands of time. Should he just stand idly by, and hope for the best? Could that actually help?

The worst case scenarios flowed through his mind, he was not one to ask for help, to ask for advice, to listen to others. He was usually the one with the answers, not the one with the questions. An exception was to be made.

“What should I do?”

“Give him time, don’t pressure him.”

The decision was made. He would let time run its course, _at least for now._ But it did not make the doubt fade away. “I made it back, finally.” He announced in a low voice. She smiled at that, her eyes spoke volumes. “But…what if finally was too late?” Fear and doubt making themselves heard. His voice merely a whisper, almost breaking.

She took him in her arms again, just like she had done the other day. She held him tight, and he squeezed her back just as hard.

“It isn’t,” she stated, her voice so determined and all knowing, like her word could not be anything other than true.

Sometime later, when she was on her way out, she turned and said. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

To that Sherlock plastered on the best smile that he could muster, and reciprocated with a short nod. That was the first misreading she had done all day, because Sherlock did not believe that John hated him, because Sherlock was not important enough for John to hate right now.  

 

 


	9. you can run, but you’ll never escape

Sometimes in life you would have to start running. You would have to run to keep from falling down. Some men would do it with uncertainty, some instinctively, while others would do it unknowingly. Right now you could run a mile in John Watson’s shoes, and it would not be comfortable, yet neither uncomfortable.

Emotionally unresponsive, and indifferent, that was what John had become. Much did not matter, and nothing mattered much. But John did not want to question it though, it was not like he longed for misery or agony.

Things were clearer now. Now that he finally understood. He had fallen in love with a fantasy. He had twisted and turned Sherlock into someone else. Everything between them could be cut down to misread signals. He had been blinded by his grief; he had been remembering things wrongly. He must have picked out specific memories to strengthen his illusion- Meaningful glances that had not been there, words spoken in subtext, casual touches that he had misinterpreted. A hand on his shoulder had not meant what he had made it out to mean. There was no deeper meaning, no secret signs of affection, knees touching knees in the sofa or in a cab had been purely incidental, nothing more than an accident.

When John looked back, what he saw was a foolish man, a weak man. Someone who had allowed himself to rely on another completely, it was absurd. Never again would he allow someone that kind of power. Sherlock had taught him one valuable life lesson alone is what he has. Alone protects him.

It was time to start fresh, to carve out a new life for himself. The first step as he saw it, was to leave Baker Street behind. He had been contemplating about leaving since the night Sherlock returned. Pack his bags and head over to Harry’s. But that would have felt like running away, so instead he had decided to stay put. To show Sherlock and most importantly himself precisely how unmoved he was by this whole ordeal.

Now three days later, and here he was looking at listings for affordable flats, leaving work early to attend viewings of what his realtor called homes, but that he himself would merely describe as closets. Well, on some occasions they could be defined as walk-ins, he would have to give her that. The search for vacancies seemed to be a losing battle, but he would not surrender that easily.

John knew that he needed to get out. He did not wish to spend any more time in Sherlock’s presence. The further away he got from Sherlock, the better it would be. It would be ridiculous to stay just to prove a point; a point that he had no reason of proving. He could not have a flatshare with someone he could barely stand to look at, let alone talk to. It was time to start a new chapter in his life, a chapter with one less character.

 

* * *

 

 

Out on yet another quest to avoid what waited behind the walls of 221b, John left his work and headed towards the Met. John had not seen Lestrade in about two weeks, so he figured that today was as good as any. He knew that there was a chance that the detective inspector would not be in, but it was not like he had anything better to do with his day.

 _It’s been awhile_ , John thought to himself as he walked in through the doors and into the familiar space. “Is Lestrade in?” He asked the redheaded girl behind the reception that he knows as Lauren.

Lauren nodded “he’s in his office, down the hallway, and then to the right” she informed, guiding the way with her whole arm as if John did not know the way, as if he had not been there hundreds of times before. John thanked her, and then made his way towards the office.

The door to Lestrade’s office was ajar and as he got closer he could hear Donovan’s shrill voice directed towards some poor bloke. John froze immediately as he recognised the familiar features of the dark haired detective. Sherlock was standing right there; his back facing the entrance. John heard Lestrade mumble something about inconclusive evidence as he handed a thick file over to Sherlock.

John really should not be surprised by this. Of course Sherlock’s was here, searching for his next thrill, a new game, and probably for the next psychopath to play with. He must have been terribly bored from the past few days, just sitting at home.

Same old insults, same old cruel remarks, same old Donovan; things had not changed in that department. John stood still; waiting for the crushing comeback, he knew was heading Donovan’s way. - Except there was not one, Sherlock remained quiet. A sudden urge came over John, despite everything he still felt the need to protect Sherlock, to move from his hiding spot, walk in there and give Donovan a piece of his mind. John hates this part of himself, hate that it’s still there, and still has a grasp over him. Old habits die hard, or at least seems hard to kill, thought John as he forced his feet to stay put.

He decided that he had heard enough, he backtracked, returned to where he came from, Lauren’s eyes still followed him as he made his way towards the exit. It was no longer John’s place, nor his will to defend Sherlock. Sherlock was a grown man, he could fend for himself.

Strange how you can go from feeling so much for a person to nothing at all. That was what he told himself, that there was nothing to feel, nothing left. That there was a big difference in feeling something for someone or feeling something about someone. He uses this to rationalise what he felt earlier, he did not feel sorry for Sherlock, he felt bad about how Donovan had treated him, and his instincts kicked in, nothing more.

 

* * *

 

 

John stood outside the Met, contemplating about the impossibility of getting a cab this time a day, and in this traffic when he heard or rather sensed someone walking up beside him. Of course the first damn cab to drive by them stops as soon as Sherlock raised his hand. _Did he have some secret mind control trick, to lure in the cabbies?_

The cab was parked in front of them, and Sherlock looked at John questionable, uncertain, in a way that John really was not used to. That was not the way that Sherlock Holmes should look. But here they were, and Sherlock was waiting for a response from John. How immature would it be if John just took the next cab? Or maybe just walked away? _Answer way, way too immature._

Sherlock seemed to be shivering, he seemed unbalanced, swaying a bit where he stood, but as John started to move towards the cab, Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he followed John gracefully. John did not know what to make of that, so he let it go and stepped into the cab that smelled of smoke and cheap perfume.

Sherlock did not ask John what had been doing outside the station, but John figured that he already knew. With that thought another appeared; if Sherlock knew what John was doing there, then he also ought to know why John was leaving… so why did he walk up to John? Was it to spite him? Or was it an attempt to repair something, that for him unknowingly was  beyond repair?

John looked over at Sherlock who apparently was watching him. Sherlock immediately shifted his eyes down and away from John; as if he was embarrassed, as if he had been caught doing something he should not have been doing. From anyone else this would have been a normal reaction when someone caught you staring at them, but with Sherlock; you usually just stared back. John had gotten used to Sherlock’s long and intense looks, and they had never bothered him before, so this seemed a bit strange. John continued to watch Sherlock for a moment longer. He looked tense as he whiped his palms against his thighs, one at a time, for the third time since John had begun watching him. If John had not known any better he would have thought that Sherlock looked nervous.

Half a minute crept by before Sherlock cleared his throat, and cautiously looked up and towards John.

“So…how was your day?” Sherlock asked, breaking their silence.

John did not know exactly what he had expected Sherlock to say, but it had not been that. Sherlock Holmes making small talk, John had never thought he would live to see the day.

“Good” John replied.

“Good,” Sherlock agreed, nodding his head along with the word. “And work?”

“Also good” _Jesus_ , thought John. He now understood why Sherlock avoided small talk; he was bloody awful at it. Could they not just stay quiet and just listen to the cab drives dreadful music instead? John let out a sigh. _This was going to be a long ride._

Sherlock, whom seemed to have fathomed the lack of interest John had in that conversation choose not to be quiet, but instead to move to safer grounds and begun to fill John in on what was in the files he had gotten earlier. He did what he always did, stating the facts of the case, shooting out deductions, explaining them; and letting John follow some of his thought process. It still amazed John; the way Sherlock’s mind worked, the way he could see even the smallest detail, the way he could find logic in chaos, the way he could put all the puzzle pieces together.

For a moment John forgot…forgot what had happened, what could not happen, what he felt, what he did not feel; for an instant there was just here, just now –and then he remembered. _What was that?_ He did not know, he could not, would not allow it entrance, because whatever that was; it would swallow him, devour him whole. John shut everything out, Sherlock’s voice became white noise.

Sitting there lost in thoughts that chased each other he got this brief reflection of how things could have been, how they might have been. He looked at Sherlock again, blabbering on about the coldcases Lestrad had asked him to look into. He remembered the day that he had met Sherlock, recalled when he had informed that sometimes he does not talk for days on end. _Oh, how John wished that today would have been one of those days._ John shifted further towards the car door, creating more space between the two. Perhaps if he sat there quiet for long enough, Sherlock would take the hint and shut his mouth. Which he did; or he just ran out of things to say, John did not know which but eventually it became quiet again.

John’s stomach growled loudly. Sherlock’s eyes moved from John’s face, to his belly and then back again. John recognised that look, he knew what was coming. “Dinner?” Sherlock asked, hope traced his features and laced his voice.

John of course rejected Sherlock’s request with a simple “No”

John could have added to the sentence. He could have lied and told Sherlock that he was not hungry. He could have declined and told him that he did not feel like it at the moment, or he could have said no thanks, because he had prior arrangements. That would have been the kind way. There were hundreds of ways to turn down an invitation in a polite manner, but why bother with any of those when a simple no would suffice?

Sherlock accepted the rejection, trying to act unmoved by it. A false smile settled on his lips, but it was not good enough to mask his disappointment, not nearly enough to draw focus from the deep sorrow that lies within his eyes. And the next time John looked over at Sherlock; he did not seem nervous anymore, he seemed distant, like he was somewhere else.

They were only a few minutes away from Baker Street when Sherlock once again cleared his throat and looked over at John.

“It took so much longer than I expected,” he quietly mumbled, meting John’s eyes with a sorrowful look.

And John knew at once that he was not talking about the slowest cab ride in the history of time. John wanted to throw himself out of the cab. _Damn him!_ Had John not made it clear that this was a discussion that held no interest to him what so ever? Why could he not leave it alone? It was meaningless, it would not fix anything so why bother?

“I thought I made myself clear the other day. I do not intend to have this conversation with you.”

Sherlock did not say anything else, he simply moved his head back and towards the direction of the window and stayed that way until the cab parked in front of 221B. John paid the cabbie, then began to walk inside with Sherlock slowly following behind him. Sherlock was not as fast on his feet as he usually were, so when he finally arrived at the flat, John was already upstairs slamming his door shut.

John threw himself on the bed, staring up at the ceiling; wondering if he would be stuck there for the rest of the evening, wondering if he was actually hiding in there. He knew that he had hurt Sherlock, he had hurt him when he declined dinner, had hurt him with his refusal to talk things through. John knew all that, but he did not care; could not make himself care. _Why did he not care?_ He was starting to get scared of his own inability to feel. Scared of how cold hearted he had become. But it was not his fault, right? He had been pushed into a corner. Shaped by things beyond his control.

John’s deep thoughts got interrupted when his phone chimed with an incoming message from Lestrade; asking John to join him for a beer after work. John let out a sigh of relief, and texted back that he was available.

 

* * *

 

 

“How long have you known?”

The question reached John’s ears before his arse had even hit the chair.

There is something in Lestrade’s face, something behind his eyes, beneath his voice. Another question that he is not voicing, the real question, what he really wants to know, remains unspoken. _Did you know all along?_ John is glad that Lestrade chose his words, left that unspoken, otherwise John would probably have rendered him with a much deserved fist in his face. Because John does not trick his friends, he does not lie and deceive the ones he claim to care about. Besides, Lestrade had been to his home, had he seen any BAFTA’s or Oscars statuettes? Because if John had managed to pull off a performance like that, then he figured that it should have granted him at least one of each for the past three years.

“A few days” answers John.

Relief settled over Lestrades features, as he nodded and slowly exhaled. “Christ,” he mumbled, shaking his head “it feels so unreal.”

John took a large gulp of his beer and nods his head in response. Lestrade smiled at him and went on to tell John about the unexpected knock on his door, and about the ghost he came face to face with. He talked about the many emotions that followed, about the confusion, happiness, anger. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that much at once, you know?”

John stiffened a bit, regretting his decision about joining Lestrade for a drink. He did not want to have this conversation, but he had wanted to stay home in the flat even less. Lestrade was so caught up in his story, clearly needing to get it off his chest that he failed to notice the lack of response he got from John.

“And the next thing I know, I’m on the floor,” announced Lestrade, reaching for his beer. “The bastard made me faint!” He laughed.

 _So that’s what we’re doing_ John thought  _just smiling, laughing it off…_ So all is well now? All is forgiven? Everything just goes back to the way it was? By the way that Lestrade was talking it sure felt like it. Lestrades laughter died out the moment he realized that it was not accompanied by John’s.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, I’m such an arse! I invited you out to listen to you, not talk about me.” He apologised. “Figured that you could use a friend to talk to right now.”

John briefly wondered if Lestrade was, or could be here on Sherlock’s behalf. _Was he here to convince John to forgive and forget?_

“What is there to talk about? Sherlock’s alive, he’s back, and he lied about everything.”

Lestrade looked a bit stricken, but John did not know by what. Was it by his whole response, or was simply because Sherlock’s name had been voiced by John. _Perhaps it was the combination of them both._ Sherlock had been an unspoken set of syllables that neither of the two men had been able to verbalize in each other’s company. They had talked about him of course, remembered and reminisced, but never gone as far as to speak his name. It had been as if saying his name had held the power to make it all too real. _This had been a ridiculous notion._ The truth was that it had been the reality of every single day, the only reality there was.

“Well, maybe we could start with that last part.” Lestrade suggested, looking at John with a somewhat sad smile.

John did not know if he should tell him, tell him that maybe he had figured out how to end things, before they ended him. Say that there was no point in talking about this. Tell Lestrade, that he refused to dig any deeper, refused to let the wounds fester -Explain to him that he was moving on, letting go, forgetting, _repressing._

For a short moment, John let himself wonder about what Sherlock had told Lestrade. What excuses he had created, how Lestrad had reacted, and if forgiveness was what had followed. _Is Lestrade on Sherlocks side? Are_   _there sides now?_

Lestrade's eyes were upon John now, inspecting him closely. “You know that whatever you’re feeling right now, is totally fine.”

 _And if what I am feeling is not much of anything?_ Would that be alright as well? Would that be acceptable, or there be a long lecture about not dealing with his emotions? About opening up and allow the feelings to come crashing down? Could John deal with that? Was he running away? Waving goodbye to sentiment? And if he was, would that be okay?

“I know it’s fine.” John lied, after having decided to share as little as possible on this subject.

He knew that Lestrade’s statement really was just a question in disguise, knew that he wanted to get John talking, but John did not know if he could get into it, he could not explain what he was or what he was not feeling, he had no words for this condition. He did not know how it worked, did not know if he had some sort of hidden on and off switch - did not dare to search for one anyways.

“So we can talk about it if you want,” Lestrade offered, trying to sound laid-back, but it was so clear that he wanted them to talk about him, that he might as well have had the words _“we need to talk about Sherlock”_ tattooed onto his forehead.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then that’s alright too.”

The answer came as a surprise, it was so direct, honest and without any hesitation on Lestrades part, that it almost knocked John of his seat. He had not expected that at all. John felt the relief flood through him. No deep discussions, just a couple of friends talking, drinking and enjoying an evening out.

“I’ll buy us the next round then.” John said, draining the rest of his beer.

They drank, they talked and they pretended to watch the game playing on the television screen by the bar; each feign their interest, both in their own heads far away from where they actually were.

“He is worried about you.” Lestrade informed as he was putting on his coat; preparing to leave. Trying but failing to sound casual about it. John shook it off, told Lestrade, that it was unnecessary, that he was fine. What John thought; what he wanted to say and what he actually said sounded a bit different these days. Lestrade looked at John searchingly, trying to detect if he really meant it, then nodded his head and told John goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“He is worried about you”_ , the words echoed in John’s head long after Lestrade had made his exit. Too little to late… John thought. He did not want Sherlock worrying about him, hell, he did not even want Sherlock thinking about him; that ship had sailed, no that ship had sunk a long time ago. _“He is worried about you”_ the words would not leave him alone, which was dreadful, since the only thing worse than Sherlock thinking about him, was John thinking about how Sherlock thought about him. This was so stupid! He wanted to be free, unattached, he just wanted a chance to start over, to become someone else for a while.

And then suddenly in the corner of his eye, he saw her, and knew instantly what was about to happen.

Whatever part of him that was left, he refused to let anyone take, but this was not that, it was mutual exploitation, a silent agreement to take nothing, only touch. A beneficial condition for both parts.

It was not easy, soft nor passionate. It was not caring, nor was it comfort, what it was, was a means to an end. He did not intend to make an emotional connection with the person beneath him. It was an attempt to take back some control. There had only ever been Sherlock occupying his thoughts, his dreams for years now, images of how it would feel, how it would be between them. How his skin would feel to John’s touch, how his lips would taste, what he would sound like….John needed new sensations, someone else’s lips, someone else’s sounds in his ears. And she granted him that, and a chance to wash away Lestrade’s earlier statement from his mind. For a short while he got the opportunity to claw his way out of the hole of misery that Sherlock had so gracefully left him in.

She did not ask him to stay, and he did not want her to.

 

* * *

 

 

As he started his walk back home, he felt strange. There was something scratching beneath the surface, something fighting to break free. A tiny whisper from his moral compass, a small cry about right and wrong, about the choices of his actions about the consequences of it all.

When he went inside he heard it, Sherlock’s violin, the tragic notes hit him, paralysed him. He could sense the pain from every tone, every stroke of the bow. And John could not take it, he retreated, started to make his way back, down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was there, waiting in the hallway, beside the staircase. What was she doing there? What was she doing up? And how long had she been there?

“Remarkable how things change,” she stated, crossing her arms as if to signal her disapproval.

“Remarkable how people change.” He retorted desperately, directing his head up the stairs; trying to get his own point across.

Was she trying to provoke him? He could not deal with this. He felt the urge so scream at her, at the whole situation. This was not his fault! But by the way she was looking at him right now, he could tell that she no longer saw it that way. What did she want from him? Did she want him angry? Did she want him to raise his voice? He would not rise to the bait. Now really was not the time nor the place for this, now was the time to escape, to run fast before everything would catch up with him

“Yes. I suppose it is.” She said, staring directly at him. John could hear the disappointment I her tone of voice. He could also sense her annoyance and see the judgment in her tired eyes.

And somewhere deep _, deep_ down he knew he deserved it, but he was not ready to face it yet, so he hurried down the stairs, past Mrs Hudson and out the door. He needed to be alone. He needed space, needed distance. He felt like something was haunting him, clinging to him refusing to loosen its grip. He needed a refuge, he needed solitude. He needed something…he did not know what it was, but he knew that he would not find it here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Just wanted to take a moment and thank every one of my readers. Thank you for reading my words! Thanks for every kudos and every comment they are amazing! You guys are amazing!


	10. every end has a start

He was leaving, heading out the door again with not as much as one glance in Sherlock’s direction. That was what John did these days, he left. He distanced himself from everything, everyone. Not even Mrs Hudson got more than a few syllables out of him. 

-This should not be allowed to go on.

A flash of courage streamed throughout Sherlock’s body. He did not know where it had come from, but he rejoiced in it. He had been back for days, and he and John had barely looked at each other, let alone spoken to each other. A dark cloud had flourished, ever since his arrival; altering their reality, and threatening their very existence.

On that first night of his return, John had not wanted to hear his explanations or apology, and Sherlock could not blame him for that. But that had not stopped Sherlock from tying once more the morning after. He had been desperate to repair the situation, to at least try to undo some of the damage. _Needless to state that it had not worked_.

But they needed to talk right? Is that not what people do? They talk things trough, they share their side of the story, they yell, they scream, and if necessary they cry. The most important part is that they share their feelings and they plead their case. John had made it abundantly clear that he held no interest in such exchange. He had also made sure that Sherlock understood that he had no right to demand anything of John from now on. He had not put in those word, per say, but the messaged had been received _loud and clear_.

So what could he do? It did not leave him many options. He had been lost, so he had turned to Mrs Hudson and Mycroft for guidance. They had told him to be patient, told him not to push John, told him to let it be for a while, and in that way give John a chance to process everything.  That as it turned out was a severe struggle all by itself, because it went against all of his instincts. Sherlock was not a man of patience and was not too keen on leaving things unsolved. Then again, if everyone was right, and John needed time, well then there was not really any other option now was there?

 

* * *

 

 

In the meantime, he had tried his best to be an exceptional roommate. There had been no new messy experiments. No body parts in the fridge, or other places for that matter. He had tried his absolute best not to do anything to bother John. He had even gone so far as to restrain himself from playing the violin at the times when John was around; just in case, so John would not be disturbed by the sound. Not that he had been forced to put much effort into that task; John was hardly ever in the flat nowadays, at least not in his awaken hours.

On the occasional times that the two men had found themselves in the same room, Sherlock had tried to start a conversation, indulge in what some might deem as meaningless small talk. Well, actually there was no longer anything that could be refrained as a meaningless conversation, not when it was with John -because any word that left John’s lips was important, was valued.

On one of the few occasions that John had actually stayed in the flat, Sherlock had made his way to the kitchen, put out two cups and prepared some tea. He had thought that it could be seen as a peace offering. Before the fall, before his absence, John had always made sure that there were at least two cups brewing each time he himself was feeling a bit peckish. It had been actions like those, which had showed John’s loving and caring spirit, and Sherlock wanted to return them. But by the time the Sherlock had made his way back to the living room John had been gone.

Sherlock had even made a trip to the grocery store, where he had bought Johns favourite brand of raisin cookies and milk. They always seemed to go through an awful amount of milk. If his actions had been noticed, then they had been ignored. John had not commented on the cookies nor had he opened the pack. And the next time Sherlock had opened the fridge, he had been faced with a second opened milk cart, the one that he had bought still stood intact in its exact same position.

He could not recall any prior time that he had strived so much for someone’s attention, yet he could not stop. Every waking hour was spent trying to come up with excuses to get John to talk to him, or at least acknowledge his presence. _It was unbelievable how frustrated an unopened package of cookies could make him feel._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The worst part was that John had not said nor done anything that could be defined as mean to Sherlock. Well… he had not exactly been polite all the time, but he had not yelled or screamed at him, and had still not too Sherlock’s surprise told him to leave yet. He had not been anything other than quiet and distant for the days that had passed. Attributes that Sherlock would have appreciated or eve sought out in a roommate -That being, before he had met John.

Sherlock was still in John’s life, but he no longer had a part in it. He was now nothing more than a useless observant.

He knew that he should not push John. That he should leave him alone, until he felt ready to discuss things. That method, however held some flaws. For starters,  _what If John never wanted to talk about what had happened? What if John no longer wanted Sherlock to be in his life? Or what if he did, but did not have the time to realize it before he was moving on?_

Things could not remain this way, if they did, then surely one of them would have to pack up and leave. _My things are already in boxes_ Sherlock thought. Even if it came down to that, the thought of leaving before they could work things out was unbearable.

They had a time-limit.

With that thought, Sherlock instantly made up his mind, and walked after the doctor with steady steps. This time John would listen, he had to. Sherlock caught up with John, just as he was about to reach for the doorknob.

Sherlock was close now, invading John’s personal space. They had not been this close for years. He sensed the heat radiating from Johns body. Saw his shoulders tense, and heard his sharp inhale. And before he could help himself, a sudden vision flashed before his eyes. Fingers touching, grasping, feeling. Chests bumping against each other caught in a hard embrace. Johns lips against his, filled with lust and want. Small fragments of all his deepest desires. _Inappropriate_ his mind shouted at him.    

He returned to reality, feeling a bit flustered, and shameful.  He fought back his urge to grab the doctor and kiss him senseless. Instead, he gripped a hold on the sleeve of John’s jacket.

“John,” he said, voice steadier than he could have wished for. ” We need to talk.”

John on the other hand had a different reaction to Sherlock’s sudden proximity, and flinched at Sherlock’s touch. His body rejecting the unwanted contact. John abruptly turned around and stared down at Sherlock’s fingers, which were now clutching the fabric of his sleeve.

“Do not touch me!” he shouted. Voice mixed with both panic and resentment. His body was tense, with dark and cold eyes. It was the first ounce of real emotion that John had showed since that first night.

Sherlock was shocked. He did not even have the time to loosen his grasp, before John quickly jerked his arm away from his touch.  A chill went up Sherlock’s spine as he retreated. Taking three long steps back, and away from John.

“I…” he started, too many thoughts jumbling his head.

He knew that there was no turning back now, so he tried once again, his voice now far from steady “I know that this is not what you want right now. I was informed that the brightest solution was to give you time.” He paused, risking a quick glance up at John’s face.  “To give you space.” Sherlock continued. _And this was where they had ended up. No more!_ His silence did more harm than good. They drifted further and further away from what they had once been. If he would let it go any further, then they would never even have a chance of finding their way back.

“But this!” Sherlock waved his hand desperately between them. “This is destroying us.”

John was angry now, so very angry. Eyes shooting daggers, “This is not what is destroying us!” He yelled. “This,” he said mirroring Sherlock’s previous movements “This you did all by yourself.”

“Just let me explain. I had no choice, I had to sa-“

“To make myself clear.” John continued. “They were right, I do need time. I do need space. I do not want to talk to you. I do not want things to go back to how they once were. I do not want to work this out.” He stopped for a breath, and meet Sherlock’s eyes, probably to make sure that his message had gotten true. Sherlock was not sure what his own eyes were revealing, but whatever it was caused John to make an active decision to spell it out for Sherlock. ” I do not want you in my life.” That did not lead any room for misunderstandings.  Sherlock became quiet, what was one supposed to say to that? There were no easy fix, no magic words to make it alright.

“If that is you what you want, then I will accept it.” And that was the truth, he would never force John to be part of his life.” But you cannot make that decision without knowing all the facts.” That should make John see reason, it was simple logic.

“I already did.”

Sherlock was desperate now. “I’m sorry,” he stumbled on the words, but continued to talk. “I just want to talk to you John. I know this is hard, and I can understand that.” _Please just stop and listen for a second_.  “Molly warned me when I was gone. She told me how hard it was on you…”

_Shit._

For a moment John looked hurt, so hurt. Sherlock could do nothing but watch as John retraced the words, understood their meaning. It was far too easy to see when John arrived to his conclusion, to observe as he took the leap from sadness to anger.

“Molly WHAT!? _Stupid, so incredible stupid_. “Molly KNEW- she knew this whole time? She knew you were alive!” John’s loud words echoed through the flat.

John and Molly had become friends, close friends. Sherlock knew this and yet he had not managed to keep his mouth shut. John needed someone to turn to, someone to talk to and Molly had helped John, Sherlock knew she had. He could not bear to be the destroyer of that. Sherlock had already added to the piles of Johns trust issues. He could not stand to be the reason that John became even more closed off.

Now there was silence.  An already bad situation had been made worse. Maybe it should not have happened like this, but there was no going back. What passed had passed. The words had slipped out. The two men stood facing each other. John’s back up against the wall, gaining as much distance between him and the detective as he could possibly obtain. Sherlock had not meant for John to find out about Molly’s involvement in this way. He wanted to explain the situation, to defend his actions. _Defend her actions_.

He looked up at John, whose lips were smashed together, forming a thin line. Sherlock shifted his gaze and looked John straight in the eye, and what he saw there felt worse than he could have ever had imagined.

“Molly was helping me.” Sherlock managed to get out, pausing a moment to swallowing loudly around the big lump in his throat. 

“I really don’t care.” John spoke, still a bit louder and harsher than his normal tone of voice.

 _Yes, you do, and you should_ , thought Sherlock.  Molly did not deserve this, did not deserve any of the blame. It was Sherlock’s cross to bear, it was his, and his alone. He had lead them into this situation, and he had to get her out. “She only did what I asked.” Sherlock informed, voice strained with a forced calm. 

“I can’t say that I’m not surprised, although I shouldn’t be.” John muttered, shaking his head in the process.

“You had her wrapped around your finger from the first moment she met you.”

What the hell was John implying? Molly knew that there was nothing between them. She knew how Sherlock felt for John. She had helped because she was his friend and nothing more. He had not manipulated her, he had simply asked for help. Friends help each other, friends protect each other; is that not what John had said countless times before? How could John even think something that? Did he not know Sherlock at all?

“I know that feelings are a foreign concept for you, but that does not give you the right to manipulate and use others.”

Well, that confirmed his suspicions. John honestly did think that little of Sherlock. It was so clear now. It felt like the room was getting smaller, the walls closing in all around him. His natural instincts were screaming at him to seek cover, to build walls as high as skyscrapers. But he would not, not this time. He needed John to see that he was wrong, needed him to understand that, because Sherlock did not only know about emotions, he also felt all of them. Love, Sentiment those were the reasons that the doctor was still standing before him, instead of lying in a coffin six feet under.

“You got it wrong- you don’t know-“Sherlock started.

“You” John finished for him. “I don’t know you,” he clarified.

That was ridiculous, thought Sherlock. _He can’t be serious?_   But John was. This plan of his had backfired, the hole that he had begun to dig for himself got deeper and deeper. _So wrong!_ Everything was wrong. Everything was backwards. John was the only one who did know him. The one person in Sherlock’s life that he had actually allowed in. John was the man who had shown him the meaning of affection. The advantage of caring, of valuing someone else life before one’s own. He was the man who had made it okay to feel.

What could Sherlock possibly say to that? “Apparently not,” was all he could muster.

“And I don’t want to.” Sherlock was well aware of the fact that John was angry. The anger might be fouling him, but it was not in the driver seat. Did not take John any places that he did not want to go. 

John does not want to know him. Was this it? Time to throw in the towel? Time to give up? _No_. One last try, or he would never be able to forgive himself.

“What can I do to make this right? “He was grasping at straws now, prepared to try anything. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” Sherlock pleaded.

“That’s just it.” John said, turning his head slightly. “There is nothing you can do.”

John looked so sure of himself, so sure of his words. What did Sherlock look like? He felt dizzy, he felt cold and sick to his stomach. His worst nightmares were playing out in front of him, only this time there would be no waking from them.

“You can’t talk your way out of this, you can’t trick me, can’t control or manipulate me.”

“I would never.” Sherlock tried, shaking his head. _Was this conversation ever going to end?_ He was not sure how much more he could take.

“Really? You wouldn’t?  Because you’ve never done that before!” John asked, letting out a cold cynical laugh. Then he became quiet for a second, and closed his eyes. _Lost in thought? Lost in a memory?_ A moment later he opened them to stare at Sherlock. With a twisted grin, that did not match the rest of his features he decided to deliver the final punch.

“I can’t believe I ever felt anything for you.”

There were no words, only a lack of them. What are one supposed to say when everything has already been said. He could not move. He stood there deaf and blind to the world closing in around him. He had never been one to talk all that much. Except for the times when he needed to explain the obvious facts of his deductions. Or simply state the stupidity of people in his surroundings, something that had to be done quite frequently, at least when Anderson was present. Other than that he rarely felt the need to talk all that much. Now he wanted to say something, but could not.

John did not say anything more, and he did not give Sherlock the time conduct a new sentence either. He simply turned around and headed out the door. Sherlock jumped slightly, and shifted back to reality when he heard the door slammed shut.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock slumped down on the couch, all was lost. He needed to leave, to disappear. He could not stay here, could not face John again; not after this. _Mycroft would take care of his things._ He had thought about this outcome before, on the days when his demise had seemed a little further away. He had thought about it, but it had made him sick to his stomach. He had taken that thought, locked it away and placed it in the deepest darkest corners of his mind. In the beginning he had only seen two paths for himself; death or John. More and more time passed and he understood that forgiveness would be hard to come by. The thought of life, _just life no, John_ was incomprehensible, because for Sherlock they had become one and the same. What would he do now?

The past was gone, the future unimaginable. He was alone.

This was it. Defeat in its purest form. Not because of a criminal mastermind. Not because of corrupt organisations or bloodthirsty opponents. So this was how it felt? This was what it all had come down to? There was not anything left to say or do. The battle was done. To stay, to fight would only lead to more damage. He had done what he had set out to do, he had saved John. It would have to be enough.

But then about 30 minutes later, his phone rang, and the words spoken on the other end of the line changed everything.


	11. the land of the living

It had been five days, three hours and approximately twenty minutes since Sherlock had reappeared in John’s living room.  123 hours and 19 minutes since John had felt much of anything, but that had all changed now. Now he felt it, all of it. The floodway of emotions breaking through the walls that his subconscious had created to shield him from the pain and anger that was now trying to overpower his mind. It was pretty much the same coping mechanism as it had used after Sherlock’s supposed death, only this time the walls had worked to keep something in, opposed to shutting something out.

He felt betrayed and confused, but above all else he felt angry. Anger was good, the fury he liked. _God, how he had missed it._   The feel of betrayal and confusion, he could have done without, but it did not matter all that much because it had already started to melt into the background. His brain had successfully managed to repress his emotions for these past few days. It had been a bit like playing make believe, if nothing really mattered to him any longer, then nothing would be capable of hurting him.

It truly had been the perfect defence, but his brain was no longer able to sustain the illusion. He figured that it was for the best anyway. He was not meant to be that way. He was meant to feel. _John Watson was and always would be a man of emotions._ And right now he was going to let them guide the way. -Already well aware of where he would end up.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s steps were even and firm as he made his way through the streets of London. Two times his phone had begun vibrating inside his coat pocket, which annoyed him greatly. He was in no mood to speak to anyone at the moment. The first time he ignored it, but on the second time he took the phone out, declined the call and then firmly shut off the phone. He contemplated the thought of smashing it to bits, but it seemed childish and he would probably only regret it later.

His breath was steady and slow, jaw rigid and fists clenched so tightly that they had long since lost their feeling. On any other day, on a normal day John would have taken a long walk with no special destination for the sole purpose to collect his thoughts and regain his calm. Today was not one of those days.

John was two blocks away from Barts when a black SUV travelling full speed drove onto the sidewalk, blocking his path. The driver; a tall blond man with broad shoulders did not spare one second before he flung himself out of the car and sprinted towards John. Hard knuckles meet John’s cheek and short after his lower abdomen. John stumbled backwards and bent down a bit to catch his breath and to still the throbbing sensation in his gut.

It did not take John long to collect himself and come to turns with the situation. This man had no idea what he had gotten himself into. John might not look like much of a threat with his somewhat short height and small features.  But with his military background, and the pent up rage bubbling inside this man would not stand a chance.

John ducked to avoid the next punch, and reciprocated with one of his own. It hit the man square on the nose, hopefully breaking it in the process. The man took a cautious step back and wiped away some of the blood off from underneath his nose, before he went to counterattack. This time his hands clasped around John’s neck as he tried to pull John towards the car.

John knew that he was not in immediate danger. The man was not trying to kill him; he was just trying to get him into the car. John briefly wondered who this man was, what he wanted. It could not be case related, he had not been working on one for ages. His association with the yard was now days few and far apart. They also went under the radar since he never spoke of it or wrote about it.

Sherlock had not had any cases either, at least not any that John was aware of. The only work he had done this week had been that five minutes he spent looking at crime scene pictures as a favour for Lestrade. The news about Sherlock’s return had not yet become public knowledge, and it seemed unlikely that he was being attacked because of his former association to the detective. And if Sherlock somehow had managed to piss off the wrong person, John very much doubted that he would be targeted since he had not spent any time with Sherlock outside of the apartment except for that uncomfortable cab ride home from the yard.

There was however one explanation for this event that John felt probable. There was one person whom might want to get in touch with John. One person who had the resources to find out exactly where he was, at this time. -A person whom had done this sort of thing before, and did not seem to frown upon the prospect of kidnaping charges. _All the facts seemed to support John’s hypothesis._

John let his instincts take over. He kneed the stranger hard between the legs, and as a result the man’s hands released John’s neck and went down to protect his groin from a next possible assault. John, who was still seeing red, threw in one extra punch for good measures before he pushed the man away from himself and against the car. The force of the push made the man’s head crash against the backseat door and he fell down to the ground.

When John made his way back from the adrenaline high, he almost felt a little bad for the guy. It was not this man's fault that Mycroft could not take no for an answer. That great brain of his clearly could not grasp the notion of privacy or alone time. Mycroft must have been following him on the CCTV cameras since he left baker street, perhaps even before that. For all John knew there could be cameras inside the fat as well, he would not hold it above Mycroft to do something like that. And it surely would explain Mr Punch first, give directions later guy on the pavement.

He did alter from the older Holmes brother’s previous associates. But then again Mycroft must have known that sending a car with tinted windows and a mysterious man with threatening undertones would not have been enough to make John play along this time.

Should not Mycroft have been able to deduce from the CCTV footage that John was in no mood for a kidnapping, a conversation or the complimentary tea and biscuits that usually followed? Should he not have been able to read from John’s posture that he was off limits that he wanted to be left alone? Of course he should John thought, not that it mattered. Because _to hell_ with what John thought or felt, why care about that? Whenever a Holmes wanted or needed something everyone else was just expected to drop everything and come running. And if they did not, well then they were apparently dragged.

 _Not this time,_ though, John felt a bit pleased with that thought. But when he looked down on the semiconscious man John felt a tiny hint of guilt. He could not have even begun to establish the length of how very not okay John was with so much as seeing any member of the Holmes family for an uncertain amount of time, preferably years. Then John remembered who had thrown the first punch, so he decided not to dwell on that thought.

“Next time you see Mycroft, tell him to kindly piss off!” John did not get much of a response from the stranger, but he figured that he had gotten his message through. John would speak to Mycroft _when_ he felt like it, _if_ he felt like it. With that said John continued his journey towards the lab and Molly. 

 

* * *

 

 

John was standing by the entrance of the lab taking in the sight before him. Molly was still there, working late, just as John had predicted. She was typing away at her computer still unaware of her company. She was wearing a red cardigan and had her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. The room was quiet, apart from the tapping sounds coming from Molly’s keyboard, and the soft humming from the florescent lights in the ceiling. John assumed that she was deeply focused on her work, since she had failed to register his approaching footsteps. He stood there, completely frozen for a moment, just watching.

There she was, John’s friend, Sherlock’s secret-keeper. He did not know if those two could mix. John was not sure of much right now. But one thing was clear to him. He wanted to confront this, he deserved some answers. _They were supposed to be friends._ She owed him.

“How?” it was the first word that left his lips. It was the word that made Molly jump in her seat, before turning around to face him. It was with that word that he decided to make his presences known. Molly looked upon him with questioning eyes, she opened her mouth as if to ask him what he meant by that. But then a light went up behind her eyes and all the questions disappeared. John could tell that she now understood that he knew, so he continued.

“How could you watch what I went through without saying anything, knowing what you knew?” _She should have told him. How could she have kept this from him? She could have made it all go away._ “How could you even look me in the eyes?” _Broken. Scared. Alone. She had seen it, he knew she had. She could have stopped it._ “How could you let me call you a friend?” _Was that what she was, because she did not act like it. She could have prevented this_. “Or better yet, how could you call yourself mine?” _She had not told him._

John was proud that he had managed to get the words out without his voice breaking. When he had started, he had been furious. He had been sure that he would shout the words out. Turns out he had not. He had spoken them slowly and steadily. And now, now he did not know if he was more sad than angry.

It felt as though their whole relationship, their friendship was built from a lie -just a side effect of the secret. Had she felt guilty? Had she felt ashamed? Could that have been the reason to why it started? They had grown close over the years. She had become one of the few people that John had relied on, one of the few people that mattered when little else did.

John could not help to wonder, thinking back at all the times had been at his worst. Molly had been there -she had helped, or at least tried to. Had it been for John’s sake? Perhaps she had been there on Sherlock’s behalf, damage control, that sort of thing. Had she kept him updated? Was that what she was? Sherlock’s secret-keeper.  Sherlock’s spy. Maybe she was not either of those. Maybe she was there by his side those times trying to soothe her own guilty conscience. She must have felt guilty right? He would have. Or no, on second thought he would not have; because he would never have lied to her like that. Never in a million years would he have let her go through that.

Three damn years she stood silent on the side-lines, watching him fade away -watching him disintegrate into this. All this time he had been drowning, while she just sat there safe and sound floating around in her lifeboat.

“How can you even sleep at night?”

“John I…-“Molly replied. A response John found unsatisfying and quite frankly unnecessary. It was meant as a rhetorical question. A question asked to produce an effect, not to summon an answer. So he cut her off “I am speaking right now!” voice laced with anger. The eyes that locked onto Molly’s were almost black.

John would like some answers eventually. But right now it was his time to talk; his times to get everything off his chest. She was going to have to wait. It was his turn now.

Small, involuntary movements started in John’s hand, the familiar but unwelcome tremors creeping up on him. He shifted his feet but remained in the same spot, giving his uncooperative brain some other body parts to focus on. It worked and they started to subside. He let out a sigh of relief, and reached up to his face, and begun rubbing his temples. He prayed that Molly had missed the small shakes in his hand. The last thing he wanted right now was to come off as weak. -He had already allowed her to see too much of that side of him.

John’s Addams apple dipped before he took a short breath from which he fuelled his speech. “I know what he means to you, just as well as you know what he means to me.”

No, no, no. _Meant. Meant_. Not means. _Meant._

John stepped aside, pulling his eyes away from Molly. Tried to find something to anchor himself to. He just needed something to hold on to. The room was too quiet. All he heard was his own ragged breaths. He was drowning, lost at sea, pulled down by the waves. _Meant. Not means._ He needed to escape. He needed to get out. He could not allow him to have that power over him. He would not. _Meant. Meant. Meant._

He was standing by the side of a cliff. Scared. Confused. Sherlock was there, and so was Molly. They were pulling him, pushing him over the edge. Was that how he had ended up in the water? Was that why he could not catch his breath? He needed some sort off trigger, a way out of his head.

There was a loud crack as John’s fist smashed against the concrete wall. His knuckles went white from the force and pressure. He looked up briefly, catching Molly’s staring eyes. Her look worried him a bit. Then he heard it, the strange sound. Bubbling up from his chest, and speeding out of his mouth. The sound was clearly coming from him. _Was that- was he laughing?_ He had no clue to what was happening to him. And by the sight of Molly’s face, neither did she.

_At least he was out of the water._

“John” Molly spoke carefully and regarded him with uncertainty. And just like that John was back in the lab, back in the now. “Meant” he said and with that the laughter vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. Molly’s eyes darkened a bit, guess she was not too fond of his response. John ignored it and continued.

“I would never have let him do this to you” and it was true. Even now.

“He did what he had to” was her response. _Without any regard of other people’s feelings,_ thought John _._

“He’s a selfish bastard!” John snapped.

“No,” Molly hissed “you're an arrogant arse!”

Molly was angry, John had never seen her angry before. _How dared she_ , he had the exclusive entitlement to that emotion right now. “Why are you defending him?” John yelled back.  _Was she even the slightest bit sorry?_

 _“_ Someone has to” Molly answered.

Molly had felt guilty. Lying to John had been hard - sometimes terrifying. But she honestly believed whole heartedly that it had been for the best. If Sherlock of all people had not found any other solution, then it meant that there were none. Molly understood John’s anger, she really did. Maybe he had every right to hate her, to hate Sherlock. _But to call him selfish_ , that she would not allow. Not after seeing his face that night at the morgue. That image would stay with her for the rest of her life. And not when every phone call she had gotten from Sherlock for the three past years had been about John’s wellbeing.

Did John really hate Sherlock? It did not seem like the John that Molly knew. The John that Molly had gotten to know would have understood. He would have needed time. He would have been angry and he would have been hurt. But she had thought that at least some part of him would have acknowledged _some_ reasoning behind Sherlock’s actions. It did not seem as he had though.

You can not only look at the outcome. Should not the intentions mean something as well? Did he choose not to see it? Was he that overthrown with rage? _Or could it be…_ it must be. It would explain a lot. “He didn’t tell you,” she whispered, more to herself than to John. 

 _Tell him what?_ Why he did it? How he did it? That he was sorry? Why did it matter? John thought. What could Sherlock possibly say or do that would fix this? _Had he successfully built a time machine that John was not aware of?_ As if kind words or soft apologies could wipe away the living hell that had been his life for the past three years. _Not that kind words or apologies were Sherlock’s area in the first place_.

Did Molly honestly believe that there was any explanation that could change how he now felt towards Sherlock? He could have been off serving queen and country for all John cared, it still would not change it. Wherever he had been or whatever had done did not change the fact that he had lied. That he had left and that John had grieved a living man. It was something that he could not forget, something he could not move past. 

Still, John had spent every day asking why Sherlock had done it. He had searched so desperately for answers. He had begged to have him back. _Every hour of every day._ But not once had he considered what it would really mean to have him back. 

What it meant was that he had allowed John to watch him crash against the cold pavement, and then deliberately stayed away -letting John go on believing the lie. It meant that Sherlock had put John through the heartache and emotional torture that John could not even wish upon his worst enemy.

The Sherlock that John had come to know, the one he had called his best friend would never have allowed John to go through that much pain _. And he sure as hell would not have been the cause of it_. So now that Sherlock was back it meant that John had been fooled from the moment he they had met. It meant that the person he had known was not real. The Sherlock that returned had wiped away every trace of the man he once was. _Or the one I thought he was._

He wanted Sherlock back. The Sherlock he trusted. The Sherlock he knew. That is who he had wanted back. Not the one who left. Not the one who broke him. He returned, and now it was worse. It was worse because he had managed to take the one thing John had left. Because when he was dead, at least John had the memories. He had that clear image of Sherlock, of who he had been. It did not matter that it was a delusion. It had been John’s reality. _Is not an illusion of reality really reality if you never find out that it is an illusion?_ But Sherlock came back, and it altered the fabric of John’s world. John felt cheated. This was not what he had wanted.

“Moriarty gave him a choice John.” John guessed that since he had not spoken or responded to her earlier statement she decided to continue. Molly did look a little insecure, and was staring down at the floor as she let the next string of words flow throughout the room. “Your life, or his.”

The news hit John hard and his body reacted. His legs began to give out and he slumped down against the nearest wall. All the blood left his face, as his breath was suddenly stolen from his lungs. _He used me against him?_ John started fast-tracking through that day, all the bits and pieces that he remembered, that he could never forget. _Is that why Sherlock had gone after Moriarty alone?_

Molly felt more than inadequate to deal with this sort of situation. Still, she had to try. John had to know what had really happened that day. She held her breath as she witnessed John struggle with this new information. It did not feel right. She should not be the one to break this news. But she could not stay quiet either.

“Moriarty was dead before Sherlock jumped!” John stated in a huff of anger. It had taken him awhile to get there. It had been a little foggy and hard to focus on the details after what Molly had told him. So to conclude Moriarty was dead so there was no longer any threat. _Right?_ Sherlock did not step off that rooftop to save John, he had his own purposes. _Please let it be so._  

A part of him already knew that this would not be the case.

“Yes, he was. But the snipers weren’t” to those words John let out what sounded like a sob. _Moriarty had always liked his snipers._ He rubbed his eyes, and bowed his head in resignation.

Was it possible that Sherlock had disappeared under Johns misinterpretations? Did that mean that he was still the same Sherlock? John did not know the whole story, but he could already feel it, on some level he already knew. He had not been betrayed. He had not been wronged. He was the one who had wronged. He had to face it now. He was finally ready to listen. _This was going to hurt like hell._

“Tell me everything.”

And so she did. Molly told John everything she knew about that day. She told him about Moriarty’s plan. Sherlock’s choice. She explained that as long as Sherlock remained dead John would stay alive. John found it hard to swallow. It felt like the rug was being pulled out from under his feet. Thankfully, he was already sitting down.

Molly crossed the distance between them and seated herself next to John. For a moment he wished that Moriarty would still be alive, just so that John could kill him himself.  Molly continued the story in slow pace. John had not been the only target, there had also been gunmen assigned to take out Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

John truly began to understand Sherlock’s choice of action. He could not have risked telling John, because he must have been watched.  John thought about it for a second, if Sherlock had told him, he would have acted differently. He was not that good of an actor. They,  _whoever  they were_ would have figured it out. _He could have taken me with him._ But that would probably have seemed suspicious, if John had just disappeared shortly after Sherlock’s death. _They would have figured that out as well_. And John did not want to think about how that would have ended for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He would have been prepared to gamble with his own life, if it had meant that he could have been with Sherlock. But it had not been only his life that had hanged in the balance.

_Was it safe now? Was that why Sherlock had returned?_

Molly had been right John thought. Sherlock had done what he had to _. Why didn’t I let him explain?_ And John knew that he would have made the same choice. It was the second time in less than a week that John’s world had been altered. That everything had been turned upside down. Rearranged.  He cursed his own stupidity.

And Moriarty had killed himself to what? To make sure that the snipers could not be called off? Was that right? Was that what Molly had just told him? He really did try to listen as closely as possible, but it was just so much. His mind was foggy and it was hard to follow the conversation.

Molly did very well though. She spoke slowly, and she took regular pauses as if to check if she should continue, or maybe it was to see if John was able to process what she was telling him. John did not know which, but each time she stopped, he met her gaze, or nodded –signalling her to keep going. It was all very overwhelming, so he did appreciate the pauses.  But he still needed her to continue.

She spoke about Mycroft’s involvement, and then went on to explain her part in the story. Sherlock had turned to her, asked for her help. She had given him the drugs to slow his heart rate, making it almost undetectable. She had signed his death certificate, and she had stayed behind waiting for him to wake up. At one time Molly rested her hand on John’s shoulder, and squeezed it gently. It was not unwelcome. 

John only got bits and pieces of everything she told him, but it was enough for now. Finally she went on to talk about how Sherlock had done it. Survive the fall that is. She did not know exactly how, and John did not care all too much about that. The _how_ did not matter, the _why_ was what was important and he already had the answers to that. This was not how he had imagined their conversation when he had marched through the doors. _God it hurt_.

“So these three years…-“John mumbled, biting down hard on his lower lip. “He spent tracking down every last man from Moriarty’s network” Molly completed for him.

John took a deep breath. _Idiot. Bloody idiot_. He truly was an arrogant arse. Pretty sure that if you looked that phrase up in a dictionary it would be accompanied by a picture of his face. John felt ashamed. You cannot control what happens to you, but what you can control is how you react to them. -Safe to say that his reaction now felt far from okay.

John had chosen to only see one side of the story, his own. He had even gone beyond that, he had refused to acknowledge the possibility that there could even be another side to the story. He had been bitter. The only thing that had mattered was what he had gone through. And when it came to Sherlock he had thought that the past years were irrelevant. But how could they have been when they told him so much about the man that had returned.

John had looked at Sherlock with his eyes shut. Now he saw him with eyes wide open, and nothing was the same. He was Sherlock again. Real, corporeal, alive. Not a figment of John’s imagination. Not a hallucination or a lucid dream. Not the stranger he had seen in his living room that night. Not the enemy who had robbed him of his memories, whom had made him question everything he knew as true.

Sherlock had been out there for three years. Taking down a whole criminal organisation _on his own._ He had given up everything his work, his home, his reputation: to save the people he cared about. _Hate to break it to you Sherlock, but not really sociopathic behaviour_.

He had been protecting them this whole time. And at what cost? Where had he been living? How had he been living? Molly had not mentioned the size of the network, but she had said something about Russia or was it Romania? It was probably both. She had mentioned a few countries, safe to assume that the network was global then.  So a lot of travel then, trains? Boats? Airplanes? All of the above? Presumably a lot of shitty motel rooms as well. _Three years without a home_. Had he been hurt? Would there have been anyone to take care of him if he got hurt? John had so many questions.

Sherlock had looked skinny, more so than usual. He had lost weight. Had he been eating? Had he been sleeping? He had looked tired that evening. Had he not? Tired and uncertain. _Fragile._ John had ignored it, had not cared. Sherlock had worked hard, risked so much to be able to come back home and John had not even given him the benefit of the doubt. Who does that? _Stupid git!_ Why could he not have listened?

 _I should have been there for him._ Despite the way that John had reacted Sherlock had still tried. He had not pushed John, had not forced him to listen. He had obviously tried to tell him, but John had not wanted to hear it so Sherlock had chosen to give him space. Sherlock had tried to talk, then to be quiet, then to be friendly and then when all else had failed, he had finally tried to _make_ John hear him out. Sherlock was still fighting for their friendship. _He had even brought home milk and cookies for Christ sake!_

But what about now? Had Sherlock stopped fighting? Had he finally given up? Defeat that was what John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes when he left this evening.  John swore to himself right then and there that he was going to make it up to Sherlock.

“And that’s all I know” concluded Molly, shifting her gaze to meet Johns once more. He had missed the last part, too stuck in his own thoughts. John nodded. No need to ask for a repeat, he knew enough without it.

Molly cleared her throat, looked up at the ceiling and fumbled a bit with the sleeve of her cardigan. “You don’t have to forgive him John-“ _I already have_. She took a deep breath. “But please don’t hate him.” _The only one I hate right now is myself._

“I don’t,” he said instead. And to that Molly let out a sigh of relief and took Johns hand in hers. Her fingers tracing lightly over his now bruised knuckles. 

“I am sorry” Molly announced after a moment of silence. John already knew that.

“Sorry I yelled” he retorted with a ghost of a smile. It was enough. There was nothing else that needed to be said. They would be fine. _They were fine._

 

* * *

 

 

John felt the ground coming together under his feet again. It was like he had spent the past three years living someone else’s life. He felt like himself again. The fog had lifted. And suddenly the world was moving again, too fast, yet in slow motion. _How was that even possible?_ He had to go. He had to make up for the past few days, for his last encounter with Sherlock, and for his ugly and hateful words. It was Johns turn to fight for their friendship.

He got on his feet, and Molly followed. John embraced her in a hug, and then turned in the direction of the exit. Molly did not ask where he was headed. She did not need to.

The barrier was broken, the world shifted back into its rightful place. All that was once lost was now restored. This was a new beginning. Finally, he was back in the land of the living.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. same game, different players

Dread, a profound and deep-seated condition of despair and insecurity devoured him. Possessed his mind, spirit and body. All senses shutting down, disengaging. But one wretched and pained image made it through, one simple yet so complex thought crawled its way out of the darkness, and into the light - _John_.  That’s all it took. Sherlock was on his feet, down the stairs and out the door.

He was running along the road. Running as fast as his legs would take him, as fast as his body would allow. The icy breeze travelling directly through his thin white shirt. Phone in one hand, hailing at cabs with the other. Desperately trying to reach John, or to reach their destination before it was too late. This time he feared that there would be no light at the end of the tunnel, but if there were even the smallest trace of justice in the universe, then hopefully he would be wrong.

Had this been doomed to happen? Had it always been there waiting? A precondition of his return? An unavoidable outcome? A punishment for all his sins, all his mistakes? The worst part was that John got dragged into it, he had nothing to do with it, no sins to pay for. Perhaps John had been doomed from the start? From the second that he had entered Sherlock’s orbit? From the moment he walked into the lab at Barts and decided on the friendly gesture of handing over his phone to a complete stranger?

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t know me, but I sure know a lot about you” the stranger on the phone told him.

Sherlock searched his mind, but came out empty handed. The voice did not sound familiar at all. Who was this man? How did he know that Sherlock was alive? And most importantly, what did he want? Alarm-bells started to go off in his head, and he got a crippling feeling that this was going to be anything but a friendly call. 

“I suggest we meet.”

Sherlock gripped the phone tighter. This did not bode well. There were only a handful of people who knew of his return, so how did this man know? Could this man somehow be connected to Moriarty? _Could it be?_ Had he messed up? Had he miscalculated, let someone slip through his fingers? _No_. He was getting ahead of himself. He had no evidence of that as far, he should not jump to any conclusions. Frist he needed to either confirm or discard his suspicions, and there was only one way to do that.

“And what if I decline?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound calm and collected.

“Well, I suppose that’s your decision…but”

There was always a but, always a catch, always a price to pay. What was it this time? New threats? Someone who wanted to hurt him? Someone who wanted him dead? He was used to it by now.  He was just so tired of this crap. There had been so much of this over the last three years and he was done with it. He was tired, feverish and hurt, he did not have the tolerance or energy to deal with this. All he wanted was to crawl under the covers and forget about the world. Sherlock’s mind was made up, he was not going to play along this time. **But** then the stranger continued his sentence.

“You should know that my associate is currently extracting Doctor Watson, and I can assure you that it would be a much friendlier meeting, if you were to join us.”

Sherlock’s heart rose to his throat, as he crumpled deeper into the couch.  The man had not lied before, he really did seem to know Sherlock, knew his weaknesses. Knew which buttons to press, knew exactly which strings to pull to make him dance like a marionette. That and other stupid metaphors, which did not matter one bit, because John was in danger. Again. _Because of him._

Was this really happening again? How? He had already lived through this hell one time, and now it seemed as he would be forced to relive it.  

“Well, perhaps not for you.” The man on the phone concluded. There was no threatening tone in his voice, which was weird considering the fact that what he had just said could not be interpreted as anything other than a threat. But by the way he said it, it just sounded as if he was stating facts, like if one were to announce the status of the weather outside.

And there it was, same game, different players. It felt as though he had been dragged back in time, but here he was three years later, given the same choice all over again. His choice would, however remain the same. It always would, no matter what.

There was silence on the other end of the line, Sherlock needed to say something. The stranger clearly had the upper hand, but did he know just how well he had played his cards? Was he aware that he had just stolen a page from Moriarty’s playbook? Sherlock needed to put up a strong front, or at least create the illusion of one. This was hard to do, when the truth was that he was desperate. If this man had John, then Sherlock would do anything to get John out of this unharmed. Sherlock revisited that thought, _if -_ _If he had John_. Sherlock did not know that for sure, and he clutched on to that spark of hope.

“How do I know that you have him? How do I know that this isn’t just some clever ploy to get me out there alone?”  

“I guess you don’t. But are you really willing to risk it?” he challenged, sounding quite amused by that idea.

 _No._ No he was not, of course not. This was all his fault. How could he have been this stupid, to think that he had been freed from this? To think that it had an ending? He was tainted by it, this disease that would contaminate everyone he cared for. He should have never gone back home. Sherlock was struggling to compose a response. Trying his best to take even breaths. The silence spoke for him, his silent desperation transferring over the line.

“That’s what I assumed.” The man mused.

Sherlock remained quiet, awaiting further instructions.

 “East Brixton railroad station.” The stranger concluded, after what had felt like an eternity.  And then the line went dead. 

And that was when Sherlock ran. Without his coat and scarfs, without his wallet and keys, without a weapon or a plan, and without any sense of reason or coherent thought. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock practically threw himself in front of the third cab that was about to drive by him. The driver looked stricken as he stomped on the brake. Sherlock did not waste any time, he jumped straight into the back seat and shouting directions at the now stunned looking cabbie. The cabbie quickly hit the gas, hearing the urgency in Sherlock’s tone, avoiding an argument with the slightly crazed looking passenger occupying his back seat.   

The sunset had passed just about an hour ago, the streetlights and passing headlights lighting up the rain covered roads. Darkness, lack of light; the evil doers have always known exactly when to come out and play. Sherlock was dialing John’s phone over and over again without any success. Einstein once said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, and perhaps that is true, perhaps Sherlock was on the brink of insanity, he sure looked the part right about now. One more small step and he would fall over.

East Brixton railroad station, _abandoned_ years before, secluded, desolated. Sherlock knew that it was a trap, and that he was walking right into it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror, his face looked pale, tense, tiered. At that moment he felt beaten all those worry lines and wrinkles imbedded in his skin, he would not be surprised if they decided to make a permanent stay. The white shirt that once clung to his body was now sizes too large and hung loosely around him. He was freezing, shivered, he did not know if it was from the fever or from the lack of protective layers. He could have used his coat right about now, but who thinks about protection from the cold, when their best friend is in danger? Protection Sherlock thought, _so stupid!_ He should have taken John’s gun with him! Mycroft had been right, Sherlock is unable to think clearly when it comes to John. Threaten John, put him in danger, and Sherlock loses all ability to think rationally. He becomes an imbecile, and acts accordingly.

Sherlock’s phone beeped as a new message lit up his screen. There was no text, only a forwarded picture; an image of John walking down the street. _Same clothes as he left with_. It had not been an empty threat. They had John or was at least following him.

The fear that gripped him with this conformation was nothing new, and no less crippling than it had been earlier when the phone had rung, or when he had figured out Moriarty’s endgame. His heart was racing, his stomach convulsing, and his head spinning. He knew that there was not anything he could do to calm his physical reactions from this terror, but this was not the first time he had felt like this, and it might slow him down, dumb him down in this battle, but it will not stop him from fighting it.

This should not have happed. He should not have pushed John, should not have tried to make him listen, and should not have made him that upset. Sherlock is the reason that John was out there on the street, an easy target. He should have been home, safe and sound in his armchair. If he had not come back, if he had not stayed at Baker Street, if he had not so desperately strived to be around John, then maybe things would have been different now. _If he would have never taken on Moriarty to begin with..._ There are countless of thing that he would have done so differently, but there are no take-backs, no second chances in this life. There are more important things to worry about now than the past. He needed to focus on what he should do now, rather than all the things that he should not have done back then.

The cab finally reached its destination point, and came to a stop. Sherlock did not spare a second, he practically leaped out the seat, and into the street. As he ran, he could hear the cabbies angry screams about his lack of payment for the ride. It did not matter. He did not matter. The only thing that actually did matter was finding John.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock followed the railroad, until he saw the lights from a parked car next to the tracks. There was only one car as far as his eyes could see, and only one person his vision could detect. _There should have been at least three._

“Where is he? “ Sherlock demanded as he got closer and closer to the stranger that seemed determined to destroy all that he had worked for.  The man took a few steps forward, decreasing their distance, meeting up with Sherlock.

“Sebastian Moran” the man said, as he reached out his hand in a greeting. Sherlock whom could not care less about the name of this scum, choose to ignore this gesture completely and instead repeated his previous question.

“Where is he? Where is John?”

“He’ll be arriving shortly.” Moran informed, as he lowered his hand.

This was when Sherlock finally took the time to observe his opponent, and what he saw, well it did not make much sense. Moran looked so harmless, lean and small in his features. His face lacked any kind of sharpness, which made him present as friendly. His hair was blond, with some grey in it, and his eyes light brown. The clothes that he wore were nice, he was wearing a suit, but it’s not too extravagant, just normal. _Everything about this man screamed normal._   He looked like the everyday man, someone who would blend in with a crowd, someone you would pass in the street without a second thought. Nothing about his demeanour seemed threatening. Still, he seemed to be the one pulling the shots. The one in charge, or was Sherlock wrong? Was he merely a front? Someone else’s cover? Sherlock needed more information.

“Who has John?” 

“I told you before, he is with an associate of mine.” Moran answered, still using that friendly tone, that miss-matches the atmosphere of the situation that they are in. Sherlock quietly wondered if Moran uses that tone, to lure people into a false sense of security. Uses it as a weapon to make his enemy’s let their guards down.

“You know him.” Moran continued, “Remember Belfast?”

Of course he remembered. One does not forget the time spent in hell. Chains, blood and knives. They had not known who he was, but they really wanted to. Days spent in darkness, caged like and animal. They had been late on the uptake, but had slowly realised that the regular beat downs was not enough to get Sherlock to talk so they had called for a specialist. He liked skin, liked to carve into it, to burn it, to bruise it. He liked to leave a mark. He liked those things very much, but the thing he loved, the thing that made his lips curve upwards in a terrifying smug smile, the thing that made his eyes shine with joy and excitement was the screams, the gasps of pain he could force out of his victims.

Sherlock successfully held back a shiver as he left those memories, that nightmare behind only to return to the present one.

“I cut his throat.” Sherlock announced, with a hint of pride over this victory.

He got what he deserved. Foley was gone, nothing left but a bad memory.

Moran nodded, “I know, I’ve seen the scar.” He confirmed.

 _Seen the scar… what? When? How?_ The shiver that Sherlock had successfully held back before shots up his spine travels throughout his entire body. Sherlock knew what Moran was indicating, but a scar is still a scar even on a pale lifeless body. _The cut had been deep, he should have bled out. He would have. He must have._ This could be a scare tactic or a power play; a try to unravel him. _Or it could be…_

Moran raised his eyebrows staring him directly in the face, almost rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s bewildered expression. He checked the watch on his wrist, waiting as Sherlock’s tried his best to come to turns with this new information. Sherlock met Moran’s stare and it was all the confirmation he needed. The truth sunk in.

_No. No. No. No._

He has John, but he is supposed to be dead. He has John, but he should not even be alive. He has John, but he was bleeding out on that dirty cement floor. He can’t have John, but he does.

There was a short period of silence, that could have gone on for ages if Moran had not tired of it so quickly. “He wants-“

He wanted to hurt Sherlock as much as possible, and now that he has John he has the power to do just that.

“Revenge” Sherlock mumbled before Moran had the time finish the sentence.

“A thing you can relate to I assume.”

And that is where Moran is wrong. The spark of revenge had faded with the last flame in cremation chamber years ago. His actions had been about a lot of things, but not that.

“And you then? What is it you want?” Sherlock asked, because so far he had not yet managed to deduce it.

Moran did not seem to be fuelled by that urge, and with a closer look it seemed highly unlikely that he was powered by any kind of emotion or sentiment. What was driving him? Why was he here? What was the connection? How did he know Moriarty? Too many unanswered questions, the answers should be there right in front of him, but he cannot concentrate, cannot piece it together. It makes him feel useless, makes him feel stupid, makes him feel a lot of things that he cannot afford to be at the moment.

Moran straightened his back and smiled, almost as if he had been hoping that Sherlock would ask. “My motive is even more traditional I suppose. I think it’s the oldest one in the book.” His eyes locked on to Sherlock, his smile widening. “Power!” he said. “I want what was his, at least what’s left of it.”

Sherlock’s face hardened. “There isn’t anything left! I made sure of it.”

“You might have kicked down the king, the queen and most of the knights, but there’s a lot of pawns left ripe for the picking.”

It all became so clear. Moran wanted access to the worker bees, to the small time crooks. The ones that Sherlock had not bothered with, the ones he knew would crumble without a firm leadership. Most of whom had not even known who they had really worked for. Manny of Moriarty’s organisations had been very successful in both the gun and drug business so Sherlock assumed that Moran intended to start there. And for that he needed manpower, he needed locations to operate, needed workers, both for manufacturing and distribution purposes. Could Moran really do it? Could he rebuild what Sherlock had left in ruins? That smug look on his face meant that he surely thought so.

Then why am I here? Sherlock thought to himself. If Moran was so sure of himself, why put on this whole show?

“Then why not go after it?” Sherlock questioned, voice flat and emotionless. “Why go through me?”

Moran tipped his head to the side looking at Sherlock with a self-serving smirk.” Well, there’s a vigilante out there, haven’t you heard?”

Of course thought Sherlock. When the house was burning you run towards safety, you do not run back inside. Apparently the same rules apply when your superiors were gunned down. He understood why they were not thrilled to head back, and fills with pride over this. That’s why Moran was here though. To rebuild that broken empire, to make them crawl out from their hiding places and get back to work.  By getting rid of Sherlock he will vanquish all of their fear and gets to show the hordes just how powerful he is. Their new fearless leader.

Seemed like Sherlock was Moran’s key to success.

_And how satisfying wouldn’t that be for him, to succeed where Moriarty had failed._

Moran took one step closer to Sherlock lowering his voice as if he was sharing a secret. “People talked you know. Strangers in the shadows, whispers of cautionary tales, warnings. Strange how anyone connected to him simply disappeared from the face of the earth. I must say that I am impressed. He would have been too.”

Sherlock wanted to rip Moran’s heart out from his still breathing body. But he knew that he could not do that. Not now, not when Moran was using John as his leverage.

“It wasn’t that hard to put it together.”  Moran concluded, voice light almost taunting.

“I share no interest in how you knew I was alive,” snapped Sherlock. “What I would like to know is how-“ _How I didn’t see you, didn’t know about you? What I missed? How I could have messed up and let you slip through the cracks? And how many others there could be?_

Sherlock really should have finished that thought before he opened his mouth because Moran looked so smug when he beat him to it.

“How I knew him?” He asked, smiling brighter than before. But it was not a question, not really which meant that he did not await Sherlock’s confirmation, he just went on. “It terrifies you that you don’t know. Drives you mad doesn’t it? Wondering where you went wrong. How you could have missed me. Why you didn’t find me anywhere.”

Sherlock clenched his fists and bit his tongue, fighting back every one of his instincts. He forced himself to remember that Moran still had the upper hand. He was the only connection Sherlock had to John right now, so he could not wring his neck, no matter how much he would have wanted to do something like that right about now. _Sherlock cannot hurt him. Not yet_.

Moran’s eyes travelled over to Sherlock’s again, seeking contact. “You didn’t though,” he laughed. “You didn’t miss my connection to him, because there isn’t one. Impossible to find something that doesn’t exist.  I didn’t know him, met him once about eight years ago, but we never worked together. “

Not because of a lack of trying from Moran’s part, Sherlock deduced. Was he really being outwitted by someone Moriarty had cast aside?

“I admired him.” Moran mused. “One might even go as far as to say that I idolised him. He is, sorry _was,_ great at what he did. I studied him. His progress, his methods. I learned a lot from his success, but even more from his demise.”

That was it, wasn’t it? He needed to prove to himself that Moriarty had been wrong. He needed to know that he was just as smart, just as capable; and what better way to do that then to become him?

 “And now you’re going to replace him.”

Moran nodded his head, and responded with a firm “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Time built itself painfully around them as they stood in silence; waiting. The rain stopped and the sky cleared. The moon shined bright. Sherlock kept looking over his shoulder in hope of spotting John.

Moran kept staring at him, as if he was trying to figure him out. “Why him?” He suddenly asked

Because he saw and he stayed. He saw the best and the worst of Sherlock, yet he had remained by his side. Because he killed a man to protect Sherlock when they hardly even knew each other. Because he would have given his life to keep Sherlock alive. Because he made him feel safe. Because he made him laugh at little silly things. Because he was braver than he thought, stronger than he looked and wiser than anyone could have guessed. Because he was unaware of his greatness. Because he thought along with the rest of the world that he was ordinary when really what he was, was extraordinary. But most importantly, because he cared and he made Sherlock care.

The reasons were countless, he could go on for ages, but he was not in the mood to share. Besides the less Moran knew about John the better.

“If you’ve failed to see why, then you’re as blind as he was.”

Silence fell again. There was nothing left to say, no more questions to ask. It was a waiting game now. Moran kept looking at his watch and Sherlock kept searching for John’s face in the shadows.

“They should have been here by now,” Sherlock deduced aloud.

“Yes.” Moran replied with a new sort of sharpness in his voice.

His posture adjusted along with his voice and hardened in a way that told Sherlock that the rules had changed. He knew, knew before Moran even made his first move to retrieve his gun. Foley was not coming. John was not coming. Moran’s aim was still the same, he needed Sherlock gone.

This was it Sherlock thought, there was only one way to John, and Moran was the first obstacle he had to overcome. He held on to that thought as he threw himself at Moran, tackling him to the ground. Moran miraculously enough had not anticipated this, and lost his grip on the gun the moment Sherlock body came bashing down on him.

Moran looked momentarily lost, Sherlock used this to his advantage, throwing in as many hard punches as he could muster. He got a hold of Moran’s head and slammed it hard against the ground, hopefully disorienting him further, as Sherlock shifted his gaze looking around them for the location of the gun.

He needed that gun, right now his fists were the only weapon available and he feared that it might not be enough. This needed to end now. If he could manage to at least knock Moran out, then he could take the time to search for the gun, end this and start looking for John.

Moran was struggling beneath him, trying to break loose. Sherlock raised his fist, preparing the blow, but somehow Moran got a hold of his wrist, twisting it painfully, distracting him as he gathered the strength to shove Sherlock of him.

Sherlock landed on his back and bit back a whimper when he was once again reminded of the old injury on his shoulder blade. He heard Moran struggle to get up, and Sherlock knew that he needed to do the same, because in this position he was a far too easy target. So he stood up, and that was when he saw it, the beginning of the change, the beast rattling in its cage; fighting to break loose. The transformation playing out right in front of him. No man could have ever mistaken Moran as ordinary now. He looked deadly, unmistakably so. He stood straight, his chest heaving, eyes bulging with rage, his body oozing with the urge for destruction.

Moran used the sleeve of his jacket to clear some blood off from his face. “He will die for this!” He bit out through clenched teeth. Then a split second later Moran had pulled back his arm, clenching his fist. He threw it forward with such force that it knocked Sherlock two steps backwards almost making him fall over in the process.

Sherlock quickly got his wind back and managed to block Moran’s following assault. He launched himself at Moran yet again and managed to shove him up against the side of the car. Snaking his hands around Moran’s throat. Moran was straining himself trying to break loose, but Sherlock’s grip was too firm. Moran was gasping for air, letting out low choking whimpers.

This was different from the other times. He had no gun, no knife it was harder to distance himself from what he was doing. All he had were his hands, he felt Moran’s fast pulse throbbing beneath his fingers. He tried to remind himself that he was in the battlefield now, he himself a one manned army. And that this war could only end in one of two ways. He realized that he was going to feel when Moran’s heart finally gave out, that the last beat would throb against his skin.

A loud clash ripped him away from his thoughts and he caught a glimpse of something green and sharp in Moran’s hand before he felt it slicing through his skin, cutting him open. There was a long sharp piece of glass stuck to his side, imbedded all the way down to his lower rib. He could actually feel the glass moving against the bone with every breath.

For a moment he could think of nothing but the burning white pain coursing through his body. His hand instinctively searched for the trauma wishing to ease the pain. He swayed on his feet, until they gave out and he fell, landing hard on his knees. Somewhere close to him Moran was coughing violently gasping for air.

Unfortunately for Sherlock Moran was used to it all. He had not unlike Sherlock himself fought these kinds of battles before, and therefore both reacted and recovered quickly. 

Sherlock was now doubled over, gasping for air. Moran had caught him off guard, and Sherlock could do nothing more than breathe through the pain.  Moran was relentless, and immediately swung another punch, this one directed at Sherlock’s face. Still it was not satisfying, not enough to too still his hunger. Moran’s thick fingers gripped around a large chunk of Sherlock’s hair as he began to drag him towards the railroad tracks.

Sherlock tried to fight back. Tried to break away from Moran’s grasp, but Moran was too strong, to determine to destroy him. Every punch Sherlock threw was weak and easy enough for Moran to block. Everything was now in Moran’s favour, nothing in his.

Moran had Sherlock right where he wanted him now. He smashed Sherlock’s forehead against the rail twice. Blood ran down the left side of his face from the new deep gash on his forehead. Sherlock feared that he might black out. Everything was spinning and he could not make it stop. He did not know how to keep going. Moran finally let go off Sherlock and he fell forward to the muddy ground, unable to keep himself upright.

Strong hands grabbed his left arm, pulling it violently too turn him over to his back. Sherlock heard his shoulder snap on the way, as the bone pop out of its socket. He was barely conscious when he heard Moran’s footsteps wander off.

Was this it? Was he finished? It sure felt like it. Sherlock tried to blink the blood out of his eye and stared up at the night sky. It was so clear, like that night, one of his best. He never had gotten the chance to tell John what he had learned, tell him how he could count all the constellations; tell him about the stories behind them. He should have learned them quicker, at the time that his home was still a home and John was still his John. Sherlock cursed himself for all the opportunities he failed to seize, for every moment of happiness that he had allowed to drift away.  

Moran was searching for the gun now, and would find it eventually. Sherlock knew that he should try to get away, fight to the very end, but he could not make his limbs move.

 

* * *

 

 

Moran straightened his shirt and tie, looked at him indifferently without any interest or concern. Moran had already washed his hands of it and he had not even fired yet. He knew he had won, could not lose. Sherlock was on the ground bleeding and Moran stood tall gun in hand. Sherlock was no longer a threat, Sherlock was no longer a worry. Sherlock was insignificant to him now.

This was the brilliant detective, the one who could outwit anyone. This was the man whom had beaten his idol, his predecessor. This weak mess on the ground was what had made Moriarty’s hunters become the hunted. How could that sad excuse for a human being have brought forth that much destruction?  It was laughable really.

Moran walked closer to Sherlock. Hovering above him, showing Sherlock in every way possible that he was above him. Drunk with power he made the same mistake as countless others before him. He underestimated Sherlock. He took out his victory in advance. He let his guard down.  Those unnecessary steps closer that last final taunting whisper “I’ll make sure he knows why.”

That was the reminder he needed. The motivation he sought. The reason to fight.  

Everything stilled, the world froze in its place. There was no pain. No night sky. No stars. There was no dirt. No blood. No fear. There was only Moran, and he would not be for long.

One chance was all he had to turn this around, he had to make it right. Sherlock gathered all his strength, aimed for Moran’s kneecap and kicked. He hit his mark, the force was enough to bend it so far backwards that it resulted in that satisfying crack that announced the newly broken bone. Moran cried out in agony as he fell to the ground. Sherlock wasted no time, he sat up and ripped the piece of the broken glass from his wound. The pain did not even register as he crawled toward Moran with one thought in his mind.

Sherlock caught the look of surprise in Moran’s eyes as the glass first punctured his skin. And that was all he would ever remember of this moment. Other forces took a hold on him as he continued on. The glass went to pieces in his hands, but he kept going, kept on stabbing. The skin yielded so easily to the sharpness of the glass. It dug deeper and deeper into his own palms. Imbedding itself in his flesh.

The blind rage that had taken him over slowly loosened its claws and he returned to himself. He shook his head, trying to see through the black haze that clouded his vision. There was no time to waste, he quickly found the gun next to Moran’s now lifeless body, searched his pockets for the car keys and ran towards the car.

 

* * *

 

 

He was at a crossroads both literally and figuratively speaking. He could follow the picture of John, drive straight to the scene of the crime and hope that it gained him enough clues to pinpoint John’s location. But the only thing was that all he had was the picture, Foley could have taken him there, but he could have just as easily waited and followed John further which meant that at this time Sherlock really had no idea where the crime scene was even located. He could go with option number two, drive to Baker Street, try to track John’s phone which to be honest held a slim chance of success. But he could however also hack into the CCTV system and with some luck there he could see where John had been taken and maybe even get a good look at the car and track it.

A decision had to be made. It had to be the smart one, the right one. He was not sure which road to travel. His head was pounding, his vision blurred and the hands on the wheel were trembling like small earthquakes. His head had never been this loud, thousand different voices screaming inside of it. The driver behind him honked his horn yelling at him to drive or get off the road. Left. Sherlock turned left, towards Baker Street and kept driving. He left the car running on the curb right outside, keys still in the ignition as he ran inside.

_It had to be the right choice._

Black dots danced before his eyes clouding his vision, multiplying with every new step. In his mind, he was shouting at his body demanding it to obey and to keep going. He made it up the stairs and into the flat. The black no longer came in frequent dots, they had found a way to grow, to connect to one another, resulting in moments of total darkness moments of blindness. His heart was beating hard and fast. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and hoped against hope that it would be enough to fend off the darkness. He opened his eyes again, everything was blurry, the room was spinning, but at least he could see it.

A few more steps and everything cleared, he could see the light, it was all he could see now and it was shining so bright. He could almost feel it now, feel its warmth. He took one more step reaching for it. But then the darkness seeped in, buckets and buckets of it –drowning him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait (it’s been a crazy month for me). 
> 
> First off I would like to thank everyone who’s reading this, thanks again for every kudos, for every wonderful comment, your encouragement means the world to me. Secondly I would like to point out that I really don’t know if the old station in Brixton works, I sort of just googled on abandoned places in London, and Brixton railroad station came up and seemed to fit fine with what I was going for. (At least from the pictures I saw). I don’t know if the place is still abandoned, or if they have built something new there, and if that is the case I apologize if the scenery didn’t make much sense.


	13. worried ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been betad by the wonderful and brilliant [OtherThingsToDo](/users/OtherThingsToDo)  
> Thank you so much for all your help! xoxo

It was a feeling like no other. To find what was once thought lost. Not in the darkest alleys or the brightest streets, but simply in the distance in between.

With the night slowly rising behind him, he started to walk. The moon up above shining, providing him with its much needed light. A Streetlight flickered, burning out as he walked past. A black cat slowly crossed the street.

Somewhere between this newfound happiness and sadness, John felt he needed the time to calculate his own madness. _The guilt a constant reminder of said madness_. Things could have played out so differently, if only he had listened, if only he had given Sherlock a chance to explain. The reason for his hate, the actions that had caused it now shone in a new light, creating clarity. Hatred was nowhere to be found, love had taken its place.

He thought back to that first night. Sherlock’s eyes upon him, Sherlock had seen him as someone else. And that was what John had felt like.

Who John had been.

It was hard not to envision how that night could have gone, had he not been such a deluded ill-informed self-serving prick. It was so easy to imagine Sherlock wrapped in his arms. _God_ , John had not even touched him, not even made sure that he was solid that he was whole and warm and alive.

How could he have been so cold? How could he have been so blind? And Sherlock, Sherlock had just accepted it as if… as if he somehow deserved it. _Fuck_. His whole heart ached with regret.

Afraid to go home, ashamed of his behaviour, John continued his walk. Images of his friend's face when he had jerked his arm away from his touch were now playing in an endless loop in his mind. The hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, the tremor in his voice… how was John ever going to find the courage to face him again?

A part of John wished that he could go back in time. Go back, grab ahold of his old self and smack some sense into him.

As he continued his walk the rain started to fall. Heavy drops landing hard on the asphalt. It seemed fitting really. A man consumed by remorse walking the empty streets at night, wanting nothing more than to find his way back home. John did not know how long he was out there in the rain.  He lost all sense of time. But after a while he subconsciously started to make his way back home, not paying that much attention to where his feet were heading.

He came to an abrupt stop when he found himself close to home, the flat now only five blocks away. He still did not know how to face Sherlock. Had not even begun to figure out what to say, how to apologise. Every time he tried to focus on what lay ahead he got caught in the past, filled with self-disgust over his actions and cruel words.

If the road to hell really was paved with good intentions, then the road to redemption was filled with bumps, snares and big-ass rocks that tempted its travellers to crawl under and hide from the world.

John wanted so badly to undo it, to take it all back. Every moment of this one-sided war he had fought against his friend, every second soaked with Sherlock’s sadness, he wanted to erase from history. How could he have fucked up this badly?

He prayed for a second chance, even though he felt undeserving of it. 

Guilt was not an unfamiliar emotion to him, but never had it felt this heavy. He knew that he could not run from the guilt, the only thing to do was to face it. Running was all he had done so far, and look what that had gotten him. His best friend was home alone hurt and what was he doing? Wandering around in the city, avoiding him like a coward! He did not know how to make it right, but avoiding it would not help. Every minute he was out here in the street was another minute that Sherlock believed what John had told him. That Sherlock thought that John did not want anything to do with him.

He came to an understanding right then and there; it did not matter that he was no near figuring out what to say he would just have to start talking and hope that the right words would come to him.

 

* * *

 

 

There it was. Home. It looked the same, yet felt so different.

A feeling of dread crept upon him as he once again had to fight the urge to run and hide. That was not the way to handle it. He had so much to atone for, so many wrongs he needed to right. His throat felt raw, his breathing uneven. His heart was pounding, and he felt a bit dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

John took a deep breath to calm his nerves before opening the door, taking the real first step in the right direction. _There would be no more running away_.

The door was unlocked, the lights were still lit and everything seemed to be exactly where he had left it, everything except Sherlock that was. John looked around, but did not find him; called his name but did not gain an answer. He checked Sherlock’s room first, but there was no trace of his friend. He went around the flat, anxiety growing. John checked the kitchen, the loo and finally his own room without any luck.

Was this it? Had Sherlock left? Had John truly managed to push him away for good? “Sherlock,” he called out again, with a voice hardly recognizable as his own. He felt himself begin to crack, panic flowing through his veins. Of course Sherlock would have left, after what John had said, after how he had acted towards him. John had been an idiot to believe otherwise.

John slowly made his way to the living room again, slumping down on the couch and then he saw it - Sherlock’s coat still hanging on the hook by the door. Sherlock would never have left his beloved Belstaff behind. John did not think, he just rushed down the stair and begun banging on Mrs Hudson’s door. _Sherlock had to be there, right?_

It took John an embarrassingly long time to recall that his landlady would not be able to open the door no matter how long or hard he banged on it, since she was currently in Florida visiting her sick sister.

Could Sherlock still be in there? He would also have known that Mrs Hudson was away. Sherlock might have decided to distance himself from John, to seek comfort there. Mrs Hudson’s flat was after all almost like a second home to both Sherlock and himself. “Sherlock,” he tried, knocking once more on the door.

When he was met with nothing but silence from the other side of the door, John decided to head back upstairs to fetch Mrs Hudson’s spare key.  When he finally got the door open he was greeted with nothing more than an empty flat. Maybe Sherlock had left after all…

John did not know what to do, what to think. He could not find anything missing from the flat, nothing to indicate that Sherlock had left. He even found Sherlock’s wallet and keys inside his coat pockets. _If he had left, then he would have to come back for them at least wouldn’t he?_ John wanted to go out and look for him, but had no idea where to even begin searching. The wise thing to do would be to wait, to remain where he was. Sherlock was bound to come back for his things at some point and John did not want to risk missing him.

John found himself drawn to Sherlock’s room.  It had been his refuge before - his comfort. The boxes still occupied most of the room. Sherlock had not unpacked.  And the knowledge of why hurt. Sherlock had not unpacked because Sherlock had not felt welcome in his own home. John had taken that from him, done that to him. On some level it was almost worse now, knowing that this pain he felt had been self-inflicted, that there was no one to blame but himself.

All of this agony was the price to pay for his stupidity, for his wrongful accusations, for his inability to see what had been right in front of him this whole time. 

He seated himself on Sherlock’s bed, allowed one broken sob to escape his chest and then he just waited. 

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, John heard the front door open and close. He hurried up and towards the sound. John made it into the living room just as Sherlock stumbled through the door and towards John, arm outstretched reaching for something. _Someone_. All John saw was red. He could not comprehend it.  It would not make any sense. “Sherlock,” it was his own trembling voice in his ears.  The voice knew before John knew - it spoke of devastation and terror.

John’s mind was going a million miles an hour, trying to catch up with what was right in front of him. The thoughts in his head had a brutal battle, one side trying very hard to cool him down, to be positive. Sometimes a situation looks worse than it really is. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, maybe he was dreaming. The other side of his mind anticipated the worst, and provided him with the speed and adrenaline needed to keep his feet moving in the right direction. He knew that he needed to focus, to process his surroundings to get a grip on reality.

Time is a very tricky thing. There is no past, and there is no future. We can gain experience from the past, and we can learn from it. But we can never relive it. We can hope for a future, but we can never know for sure that there is even going to be one. All there ever is, is now. –And right then Sherlock’s body was falling to the floor and John was unable to catch him before he landed face down on the carpet.

“Sherlock,” he heard himself scream at the sight before him. Sheer panic ripped through John, filled him up completely, disorienting his mind. It felt like an out of body experience. He could see himself running to Sherlock’s side, kneeling down beside him. Doing so in such haste that he fell to the side and then had to struggle to regain his posture. _Please don’t do this to me, not again!! Not again! Not again!_ Echoed like a mantra again and again filling up his head.

His fingers slowly grasped hold of his friend’s wrist, checking, searching for a pulse. The other arm pulled the body around, shifting its position to gain a better look.  -And there it was, Sherlock’s beautiful face covered in blood streaming from a deep cut along his temple some of his curls clinging to the blood.

John wished for it to be an illusion or some other trick of light. A fever he could not sweat out, took hold of him, threatening to swallow him whole. Closing his eyes would not help; the image had burned its way into his head, mixing with the previous visions of Sherlock’s bloody face against the pavement outside the hospital. And so it was that John found himself reliving the worst moment of his entire existence.

Lost in grief; caught in despair, it took his brain a few seconds to register the sensation of a steady beat vibrating against his fingers.

Tragedy blows through life like a tornado, uprooting everything. Creating chaos. It only took the registration of a pulse against his fingers to anchor him, and to pull him out of the chaos.

 _He had a pulse!_ He felt a pulse. This had not been his mind playing tricks on him, had it?

He regained his focus, held his breath and waited for a new steady beat to bump against his fingers. And there it was, the sensation of all sensations, the proof of his sanity. A heart, beating away, cutting out the rest of the world. Sherlock’s heartbeat was everything. Nothing had ever mattered this much, past, present or future. _And it never would_.

Misery made beautiful, right before his eyes, eyes that were now swimming in tears trickling down his cheeks.

Fear is the heart of love. It helps us understand the importance of the ones we care about. Fear means that you have something to lose. Moments like this define our lives, gives us a new perspective. Pushing, dragging us to the place where we are supposed to be. Shaping us, forming us into the persons we are meant to be, showing us our rightful place in the universe.

“Sherlock, Sherlock are you with me? Can you hear me?” John’s voiced softy begged for a response. - A response he did not get. But the comforting sound of Sherlock’s breath, told him all he needed to know for the time being.

He carefully turned Sherlock’s beaten body around a little more, so that he now was facing upright, with his back against the living room floor. There was so much blood. On his face, his hair, his hands. The once upon a time white shirt now resembled a sad painting trying to tell the story, share the memories, of the struggle that occurred. The blood was splattered across the shirt, creating patterns and figures that now danced before John’s blurred vision.

He laid one of his cool hands on Sherlock’s forehead. It was warm, too warm, burning up. Not the comfortable, agreeable heat of the human body. No. Heat as in fire, burning him up from the inside out.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” John repeated in Sherlock’s ear. He did not know if the detective could hear his words in his current state, but John needed to speak the words out loud because he found that he himself needed the reassurance.

John quickly lifted up his phone and turned it on to dial for an ambulance. He was doing his best to hold back the panic as he tried to calculate the amount of blood loss, consistent with the state of Sherlock’s shirt. As his fingers pressed the buttons on the phone, he continued to talk out loud to his friend. “We have to get you to a hospital,” he mumbled as he started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, in search of the source of the bleeding.

That sentence seemed to have awakened something in Sherlock, who now started to regain consciousness. Fluttering eyelids were soon followed by a pair of misty eyes opening wide. Sherlock’s pupils were acting like they were about to dilate but never did, they just kept going in and out, never expanding to their full potential. His eyes looked blurred, and when John searched for recognition in them, he did not find it. Sherlock was somewhere else, reliving a different time from his years away, not that John was aware of this.

“No Hospital,” a weak voice shuddered.

So like him, John thought, always objecting, never listening. John would have found this comforting, had it not been for all the blood.

“Sherlock, please don’t fight me on this,” John replied, begging for Sherlock to listen. “You are in a bad condition. You have lost a lot of blood. I need to take you to the hospital!” He was trying his very best to sound as cool and collected as he possibly could.

“I don’t care what condition my condition is in,” Sherlock got out, trying to make his voice firm and decisive.

John, his grip still firm on Sherlock’s wrist, felt him start to struggle, trying to pull himself away from John. _Why was Sherlock fighting him?_ John tried again to find Sherlock’s eyes, to gain eye contact, to calm him down. But the detective’s eyes still looked dazed, flickering from side to side, unable to focus on anything.

“It’s not safe, it’s not safe,” Sherlock repeated loudly as he tried to tear himself away from John. Sherlock somehow managed to get ahold of the phone in John’s hand, pulling it from his grasp and throwing it across the living room.

John froze, he did not know what to think, what to do. He had never seen such terror in his friend's eyes, never heard such desperation in his voice. John had no idea what had happened to Sherlock, who had done this. What if Sherlock was right? Would John put him in even more danger if he took him to the hospital?

“No!” Sherlock shuddered, clearly speaking to someone who wasn’t there. ”They will know… They will know and they will hurt him.” The panic mixed with the sadness in his voice made it sound raw and vulnerable. Sherlock looked so scared, so lost and John did not know what to do.

“It’s not safe, ” he said once more, as a single tear found its way out, trickling down the detective’s bloody cheek as he spoke. Sherlock keep struggling to free himself from John’s grasp and John was terrified that Sherlock would hurt himself even further.

“No hospital.” John repeated, not sure if he would be able to keep that promise, but needing Sherlock to calm down so that John could assess the damage. It worked. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, and finally stilled in John’s arms. A short moment later his eyes closed, and the world faded away as he once again fell into unconsciousness, rendering John speechless.

Acting on instinct he quickly ripped Sherlock’s shirt open to inspect his injuries, simultaneously thanking God for his choice of occupation. He needed to find the source of the bleeding and stop it. He observed Sherlock’s upper body. He flinched and gave out a small whimper at the sight before him. A flash of guilt radiated from his green eyes.

Sherlock’s body had been beaten and mangled. There were scars and countless bruises covering the chest and shoulder area, some old and some of them relatively new considering their variations of coloration and form. His shoulder was dislocated, the bone sticking out in a painful and wrong way. But to John’s relief there was only one visible open wound on the detective’s torso.  Located by his lower ribs, the torn flesh standing in sharp contrast to the rest of his pale and intact skin. This wound, however, could not have been responsible for the amount of blood or the patterns on the shirt.

John fought a sob of relief as he let the realization sink in. It was not Sherlock’s blood. Well, some of it was, but not most of it. The open wound did not bleed that heavily. He could do this. He could stitch him up, fix him, and he could do it right here, in their home, honoring Sherlock’s wishes.

He let his fingers linger a second longer on his friend's warm chest. Gathering the strength it would require to leave his presence. Terrified that he would disappear; cease to exist if the distance between them were to increase.

 

* * *

 

 

He swiftly got to his feet, feeling a bit disorientated. Rapid steps flew up the dark stairway, the stairs creaking with each step. The room was dark. One of the windows cracked open, providing the room with its only source of light, beaming from the streetlights outside. The darkness did not matter to the man entering it though. He knew this place inside and out. Five steps forward and two steps to the right and there was the closet, with a neatly packed and slightly upgraded first aid kit. -A good thing to have in a bad situation. John bent down, stretching his arm into the closet, and effortlessly grabbed ahold of the kit and ran back downstairs.

For millenniums people have wondered what light is. Countless numbers of theories have been created over the centuries. Maybe light is as Socrates once said, streamers embittered from our eyes, making it possible for us to see the world. Or perhaps light in its purest form is only a form of energy, a small section of the electromagnetic spectrum visible to the human eye. Whatever it is, or however it works, does not matter really. The light coursing from the lamps in the living room made it possible for John to see the detective. Made it possible for him to clean out his wounds, and stitch him back together again. And for that John was eternally grateful.

He quickly started to address Sherlock’s wounds, using the alcohol wipes that he had taken out of the bag. A few whimpering sounds, definitely not his own could be heard as the alcohol connected with the torn flesh. The sound cut like a blunt knife, tearing John apart. He reached for the medical kit again, rummaging around in it. He knew what he was in search of,  knew what he needed. And there it was; a small glass vial, his hero in liquid form.

He picked up a syringe, and filled it up with the right dosage. This way there would be no chance of Sherlock waking up in agony as John treated his wounds. Sure, Sherlock was more or less unconscious for the time being, flickering in and out of this reality, but his body was still reacting to the pain, and John wanted to make it stop. He needed to take it away.

With the syringe in his hand, he stopped dead in his tracks. Before he could give Sherlock the sedative he needed to be certain that there were no other drugs in his system. John hated himself for what he was about to do, but it could not be helped. “Sherlock,” he said, carefully shaking his friend, trying to wake him. “Sherlock,” he tried again, shaking him a bit harder, hoping that it would be enough to bring him back to reality. John did not want to hurt him, but needed him to wake up, so he used one of the old techniques he had learned in medical school and frequently been forced to use in the war. He used his knuckles to create a turning pressure on Sherlock’s sternum, pain stimulus was horrible, but sometimes they were the only way to wake someone.

It did the trick. Sherlock’s eyes immediately popped open as an agonising sound escaped his lips. John pushed down the guilt he felt at Sherlock’s pained and disoriented expression, he would have to work through that later. It felt like insanity, wake him up so he could put him to sleep, hurt him to be able to take the pain away. But it was necessary, John had to know for sure that there would be nothing interfering with any drugs he would have to give Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John repeated once more, searching for his friend's eyes. “Sherlock listen to me,” he said, demanding his attention. Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to shut again so John raised his voice, dragging Sherlock back to him. “Sherlock I need you to focus!”

“John,” Sherlock said and it sounded like a question. He looked so small, so lost.

“Yeah, it's me,” answered John, he tried for a reassuring smile, but it came out more like a frown. “Sherlock I need to know if you’ve taken anything, if there are any drugs in your system.”

Sherlock looked confused at first, then shook his head.

“Are you sure? I have to know, it’s important.”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

That was all the reassurance John needed and he once again reached for the syringe. John waited until he felt Sherlock’s tensed body relax in his arms to begin his work.

John cleaned out the wound by Sherlock’s ribs, careful to get out all the dirt along with a rather large piece of glass that had been stuck inside. The glass had actually worked well as a blockade, preventing more blood from leaving Sherlock’s body. Once John removed it the blood flow increased severely, and he had to work fast as he stitched it closed.

When he was done with that, he moved on and started to attend Sherlock’s other injuries. The laceration on his forehead was pretty deep, and also in need of some work. Sherlock’s shoulder needed to be moved back into its socket. John comforted himself with the knowledge that at least Sherlock would not have to be awake and feel any of it.

John worked with precision and care, his hands as stable as ever before. He kept a careful watch on Sherlock’s pulse and breathing patterns, making sure that his condition was not deteriorating. Sherlock’s skin was still way too hot to his touch, so John gave him something to fight the fever.

It was not until he was done and was about to carry his unconscious friend towards the bedroom that John got the first glimpse of Sherlock’s back. John had seen those kinds of scars before. He had seen them in the war, seen them on soldiers who had been saved from captivity. He would recognize that kind of scar tissue anywhere and he knew exactly what it meant. Sherlock had not only been hurt, he had been tortured.

Something inside of John just broke, it was a sharp and searing pain, unlike anything he had ever felt before. He sobbed sharply at the ache, trying to steer himself away from it, but wherever he went it followed. Tears that should not have been let out landed on scars that should never _ever_ have existed. He could not run from this feeling. He had to embrace it, to let it wash over him, to really truly feel it. And then he had to keep going because there on top of the older scars was a new one, a long, deep infected gash spreading its poison throughout Sherlock’s body.

 

* * *

 

 

John, still lost in thought, sat in the same exact spot he had placed himself in after putting the detective on the bed. He had not wanted to leave his side, had not wanted to lose the feel of Sherlock’s warm skin against his fingers. As the sun slowly began to rise outside, with its warm rays beaming through the window, John felt the exhaustion starting to catch up with him.

His body was begging for sleep, but sleep was not an option. No, for sleep meant relaxing.   Sleep meant losing hold of this reality, surrendering the present, surrendering the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat pulsating through his wrist, bumping against John’s touch.

He gently looked up at Sherlock’s sleeping form. His face had regained some of its original colour, bringing with it a light shade of red spreading over his warm cheeks. John wanted to be awake when Sherlock’s regained consciousness. He wanted to be there when his eyes opened. But this, as it turned out, was not an easy task to accomplish.

His mind was fighting his body, struggling to take control, to change the outcome. His mind was strong, but fought a losing battle. Not changing the inevitable, only holding it back it for a short while. Moments later, John Watson was asleep. He was still on the floor, with his back supported by the bedside table, his legs stretched out alongside the bedframe and his head slightly tipped forward. John’s arm was hoisted up on the bed with his fingers still clasped in a firm grip around his sleeping friend’s wrist.


	14. in search of light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betad by the amazing [OtherThingsToDo](/users/OtherThingsToDo)  
> Thank you so much!

How long before we find ourselves out of the dark, out of harm’s way? How long before we can feel safe enough to wake from this protective slumber? The slumber that now barricades us from reality. How long before we can face the present? How long before we can feel safe again?

Sherlock was gradually finding his way back to consciousness. Though he did not know what he was going to do once he got there. Small fragments of the night before had started to reappear, visions flashing before his closed eyes.

He saw the moon. He saw stars. He saw his blood covered hands, saw Moran’s closed eyes. He saw a red stain on a white leather seat. He saw John, light radiating from his very being. He had shone with the brightness of a thousand burning suns. But his brightness, his light had been chased away by dimness and dark shadows. _Was it real? Had he truly seen John? Was he safe?_ Foley’s face popped into his mind, the same wicked grin, the same smug look in his eyes. The red line on his neck, the mark that Sherlock had left on him seemed to hold that same vicious smirk.

He needed to snap out of this, he needed to find John, needed to know that he was okay.

It seemed that his presence had not done anything other than create complications for John. It would have been better if he had simply stayed gone, stayed dead.

He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to cooperate and remained closed. He willed them to open once more, but soon understood the task to be impossible for the time being. Instead he lay there, trying to gather information from his other senses. He felt more than a bit groggy. His head was spinning, bringing with it a feeling of nausea. His mouth felt dry, and tasted of iron. The room was filled with a familiar smell; countless types of tea, mingled with newly washed sheets and a distant smell of musky cologne.

Home. He was home.

There was numbness over his body. But somewhere beneath that there was a throbbing sense of pain fighting its way, trying hard to make itself noticed Sherlock could feel the pressure of a bandage wrapped around his ribs, making it a little harder to inhale. There was something on his back as well, another patch of gauze carefully placed by his shoulder blade.

He found himself in soft surroundings. He was covered with sheets and blankets. That explained the sense of a burning heat radiating from his body. There was one other sensation that Sherlock could perceive. His arm was resting on top of something, or rather on top of another person’s warm hand.

Yes, his skin was very much in contact with someone else’s. John’s presence lingered in the room. And before Sherlock had even flicked his eyes open, he knew that once he did, he would see his friend's face. A face he only hoped would be unharmed.

The light in the room made his eyes burn, and it took him a second to focus on his surroundings. There on the floor sat one John Hamish Watson, with his eyes closed, clearly sleeping. The best part about this sight was that John looked unharmed. There was some bruising on his right hand, but apart from that there were no other signs of injury. Did this mean that Moran had lied? Had it all been an elaborate scam to get to him? Or had John managed to get away? He would have to figure it out, but not right now. Sherlock took a moment to listen to John’s deep and slow breaths; calm overtook his body, and he allowed himself to relax.

Fate had intervened, lending its helping hand. All that mattered was still intact, nothing else mattered.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock laid there still for a moment, basking in the feel of John’s skin against his. How could such a small touch feel this good? Make him feel so much? It felt too good to be true, which he soon recalled it to be. Visions from their latest encounter flashed before his eyes. John had not wanted Sherlock to touch him. Sherlock was taking advantage of this situation. He immediately pulled his arm away from John’s hand, the loss of touch hurting more than any injury on his body.

If it was the swift motion, or the absence of contact that made John’s eyes instantly flash open, Sherlock would never know.

John looked disoriented for a moment, and his hand immediately reached for Sherlock’s again. _Seeking contact. Seeking comfort. Seeking reassurance_. Not that Sherlock knew or noticed that. He did however notice that John’s hand hovered in the air between them before John retreated and let it fall to his side.

Sherlock should have been more careful, he should not have woken John. He was terrified that John would leave because he did not know if the threat had been real. He did not know if John was in danger.

He felt the panic forcing itself on him, getting stronger with every breath smothering him. His heart was beating so hard and fast that it might just beat its way out of his body. He was shaking, the room was spinning, _he needed air_. The room began to shrink, the walls closing in on him. He was stuck in it, overwhelmed. He needed to get out. Had to. There was not enough air. Was there a siren sounding? That ringing in his ears, it was all he could hear. _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._ He was there stepping out of the shadows, he was coming to take-

There was a voice in the distance. “Breathe,” it said. “Just breathe with me.”

Sherlock felt familiar and light fingers grasp and guide his arm. His hand was placed on something warm, strong, solid.  It beat against his palm at a steady reassuring pace. He followed the rise and fall, the intake and outtake. The voice continued to speak, telling him to “take deep breaths.” Two warm hands were on his cheeks holding him as if he was something precious.

“It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

Sherlock did as the voice asked.  It took some time, but he did manage to find the pattern and synchronize their breathing. He felt stronger with every intake.

“You are safe,” John told him, with a calm and steady voice. But that was not what Sherlock wanted to hear. That was not the reassurance he needed. Sherlock felt that this would have been a proper time to roll his eyes, but was not quite ready to open them yet. He wanted to tell John that he did not give a damn about his own safety as long as John was in danger, but then John added, “We are safe. I promise.” And the complaint died on his tongue.

It was strange how all of his fears and doubts just melted away with John’s promise. John’s hands were still on his face and one of his thumbs slowly traced along the line of Sherlock’s cheekbone before he let his hands fall away.

“Sorry,” He whispered, breath caught in his throat.

Sherlock did not know what for, but decided not to ask as he removed his hand from John’s chest.

He finally opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of John. His face looked swollen and flushed. His eyes were puffy and red, like he had been crying for hours. Sherlock quickly turned away, feasting his eyes upon his now lonely hand that was placed upon his own chest.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock tried to ask, but his throat was so raw, dry and constricted that it came out as a hoarse whisper barely audible to his own ears.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw John nodding his head.  He was not certain, though.  He was not ready to look directly at him just yet.

The room was silent for a moment then John slowly stood up and shifted his gaze towards the door. He was on his way out. Sherlock knew this, it had been inevitable, but it still made him sick to his stomach. He did not want John to leave. He did not want to be without him.

Sherlock would not ask John to stay no matter how much he ached to do just that. John had already done more than Sherlock could have asked of him. John was the reason he was lying in his bed right now instead of the living room floor bleeding out on the carpet. 

He separated his lips, trying to form a word, just one simple word. He wanted to thank John; a simple “ _thanks”_ before John walked out that door and things got back to the way they had been before.  He wanted to do it now, and do it fast, before he missed his chance. Of course a simple thank you was not all he wanted to say. He had lots of other things on his mind that he wanted to express. There were so many things that he wanted to tell John, but he knew better now - _had learned that lesson the hard way_.

This time it was not the words that failed him, it was his voice.

What Sherlock did not know though, was that John himself was struggling. -Struggling, not with the absence of his voice, but with the words. He needed some time to figure out what to say, so he slowly begun his journey towards the door. “I’m just gonna fetch you some water,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll be right back.” And with that he left the room, but not Sherlock. Never again would he leave Sherlock.

Sherlock felt his nerves settle a bit at John’s words. He struggled a bit while shifting into a sitting position. _Not an easy task to manage, when you’re practically one handed and your head is spinning like a merry-go-round._ Once he was in the right position, he rested his back against the mountain of pillows that John had built up by the headboard of his bed.

He listened as John’s rapid footsteps made their way across the living room floor, and into the kitchen. He recognised the sound of a kitchen cabinet opening and closing, as well as the sound of streaming water as the glass was filling up. A few seconds later, John was back in Sherlock’s bedroom. Standing by the side of the bed and handing him the glass.

As the glass exchanged hands, one of John’s fingers grazed Sherlock’s. John did not remove it right away, it just remained there lingering on top of Sherlock’s for a short while. Once John let go, the glass tipped slightly in Sherlock’s hand, allowing some water to spill out. The water drops landed one of the many blankets, and was slowly absorbed by the fabric, resulting in a slightly darker figuration of colour that created a contrast to the rest of the fabric. Sherlock did not notice, he was too preoccupied with the thought of finally drowning his thirst. He raised the glass quickly to his lips, and drained most of it in one big gulp.

That, as it turned out, was a big mistake. His stomach flipped, as he felt the nausea gripping ahold of him. He felt cold, his body started to shiver, and his mouth filled with saliva. He knew what the outcome would be, and quickly threw himself over the side of the bed. This action, causing him to cry out in agony as his wounded flesh and ribs slammed against the bedside. His whole body wrenched, as the substance made its way up his throat.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear John’s soothing voice. He could feel a soft hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing in a circular motion. Once he had gotten it all out of his system, a pair of strong hands gently helped him back into the bed. John once again reached for the glass of water and extended it to Sherlock. “Small sips this time,” he said with a soft tone before releasing his hold on the glass.

In the midst of all this madness, and the awkwardness of the situation a small smile began forming on Sherlock’s lips. Not as a result of John’s words, but simply because he still felt one of John’s hands on his shoulder, stroking it softly. _John was here. John was close. John was still touching him._

And almost as if a cruel trick of fate, the stroking stopped and the touch disappeared, vanishing along with the smile forming on Sherlock’s face. John had left again, and Sherlock felt empty. Still, it had been good of him to stay this long, and to help him back in his bed Sherlock thought. It had been, for a lack of better word,“nice” to have him near again.

In the midst of all the disorientation, of all the chaos, he remembered that he had forgotten. He had forgotten to thank John. It would have to be a little later then, Sherlock thought as he shut his eyes. He was still so very tired, and his whole body had begun to hurt. Being awake meant hurting. It also meant thinking, analysing and deducing all that had just occurred. He simply did not have the energy for that now. It was better to let sleep take him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was drifting off to sleep. His body and mind had begun to relax and he was now only semi-conscious, somewhat unaware of the world around him. He was on his way to a different world. A place that could make your wildest wishes come true, or make your worst fears come to life. The road ahead was long, countless places to pass, so many sensations and impressions to leave behind. He was now in the places between. In the land of the lost, but he had a map and he knew where he was headed. 

A cool touch against his forehead changed the outcome of his destination, and made his eyes instantly pop open.

John was sitting on his bedside, one hand on his forehead, and the other holding a small towel. He moved a bit closer to Sherlock and leaned forward. He was so incredibly close now, so close that Sherlock could feel small puffs of air tickling his face as John breathed in and out. The wet and slightly heated cloth had now made contact with his skin, wiping away all the rottenness, all the particles of smudge. When it was done, he almost felt clean, cleansed even.

Sherlock did not know what to do with his eyes. They flickered from side to side, trying to look anywhere - at anything but John. He did not feel ready yet, not ready to stare into those green eyes.  Not now. Not when the distance between them barely existed.

He had to focus on something. The floor seemed as good a place as any. As he looked down, he realised that there were an absence of vomit on the floor. John must have cleaned it up. And done a fairly good job at it, as there was no longer even a slightest bit of evidence of the event having ever occurred.

“Here,” a soft voice spoke, holding out four pills with one hand and a new glass of water with the other.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, still a bit raspy in his voice.

As Sherlock took the pills and swallowed them down, John leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed a second glass filled with a green substance. _Mouthwash_ , Sherlock thought as he took the glass and poured the liquid into his mouth. He gargled letting the minty freshness make its way around in his mouth washing away the previous, not so pleasant taste. Once he was done he simply spit it back into the glass.

He steered his arm out to the side trying to put the glass back on the nightstand, but could not reach it from that angle, his arm too stiff and uncooperative. Pain throbbed from his shoulder all the way down to his fingers and he almost dropped the glass as he tried to bend his arm. It was useless.  He would have to move closer to the side of the bed in order to reach. He let out a small sigh as he tried to make his tired and sore limbs cooperate. 

He needn’t have bothered, though, because as soon as John spotted Sherlock’s movements he had stretched forth his own hand and taken the glass.

After that Sherlock felt his gaze began to shift, it was an uncontrollable impulse. He had felt John’s watchful eyes upon him since he had returned to consciousness and now it seemed as if his own pair wanted to return the favour.

He had not dared to before, he had not been ready, _he still was not ready_. But his body had a will of its own and right now it was in control. Sherlock blamed his drugged up mind for the loss of authority. He tilted his head a bit upright, so that he could get a better look at John. An eternity later and he still could not stop looking at him - gathering and memorising all the changes in his expression. There was no anger or hatred in those eyes, only care and concern. It was finally John’s eyes staring back at him.

“I’m just gonna check your stitches, make sure you didn’t pull any,” John said, moving closer to Sherlock.

“Alright,” Sherlock responded, still lost in John’s eyes.

It was strange how different it felt. How intimate such a small action could become.

John’s hands were warm and caring as they travelled over his skin. Sherlock’s heart begun to beat faster and harder, he wondered if John could hear it. John’s touch felt like a blessing, like something sacred.

John’s eyes began to travel over his torso, taking in the rest of the damage. He felt John’s fingers linger over a particular nasty burn mark. Battle scars, that is what he had called them in his head; that is what they were. They were something that Sherlock had never wanted John to see, not because of how it looked, but rather because of how he feared John would look if he saw. _Which, of course, was exactly how he looked now_.

Sherlock suddenly felt naked, exposed. He could not stand the look on John’s face and the knowledge that he was the one who had put it there. Sherlock needed to break John’s trance, before John started to ask the questions Sherlock could tell were lingering on his lips. He could not do this now, it would only make things worse.

“Are you done?” he asked, trying to sound harsh, but failing miserably at it.

John’s head snapped up at his words. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled embarrassed and immediately begun to reattach the bandage. “You should try to get some sleep again,” he added carefully and walked over to the corner of the room to retrieve a chair.

Sherlock felt his mouth fall open in surprise. He did not know what he had expected, but it had not been that _. John was staying here, in his room, by his bedside?_

“Is it alright if I stay here?” John asked, looking over at the empty chair. “I won’t disturb you, I promise. I just want…” He sounded unsure, as if he might have accidently stepped over some invisible line.

Sherlock stared at John, still trying to understand how on earth this was happening. “I just think it would be best if I stay close by, in case you need m…” He stopped, ran a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. “I mean in case you need something,” he offered weakly.

John just stood there by his bed switching his gaze between Sherlock and the chair. It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John was waiting for his permission.  He did not trust his voice for the moment so he simply nodded in response. It seemed to be a good enough answer for John, who immediately sat down.

“John,” Sherlock said. He did not want to sleep, he wanted to salvage this moment, but he already felt eyes close of their own volition and his tired mind begun to drift. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?” John’s soft voice questioned.

 _For coming back,_ thought Sherlock _._

 

* * *

 

 

“I am so sorry,” John breathed, a broken whisper that made it into his dreams. He could not understand it, did not know if it was real.

After a while John’s hand slowly found its way to Sherlock’s, lifting it gently, slipping his own fingers into his and squeezing it lightly, momentarily bringing Sherlock back to consciousness. There was a lot that needed to be said, behaviour that needed to be explained, and questions in need of answers. But in that moment, the rest of the world faded away. All that mattered was now. All that mattered was John’s hand in his.


	15. little white lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my lovely beta [OtherThingsToDo](/users/OtherThingsToDo)  
> for all your help on this chapter!

Sleep felt like an impossibility. There were just too many thoughts swarming around in his head, too many voices shouting in there. Tonight had been terrifying. To know how close he had come to losing him yet again. John still did not know what had happened, did not know if the person who had done this to Sherlock was still out there. He glanced over at the SIG carefully placed on the nightstand. One thing was certain, though. No one would come close enough to Sherlock to hurt him again; John would die before he let someone lay as much as one finger on him.

Things would be different now, no matter the threat, no matter what monsters lurked in the shadows John would stand by his side. Sherlock was done facing them by himself, because John refused to let him. They were supposed to be a unit - a team, they had always been stronger together. John knew that he had screwed up, let Sherlock down, but never again.

The sound of Sherlock’s slow breaths travelled through the room. Even in sleep he was in pain and John could not do anything but watch helplessly as this condition followed Sherlock into his dreams.

The words, he felt them in his heart, tasted them on his tongue, he knew that they would be inadequate even before they were voiced but right now they were all he had. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, saying it over and over again, knowing that it would never be enough.

In the bed Sherlock looked paler than usual. John watched as he huddled into himself searching for protection from the cold or perhaps from the pain, but it did nothing to control his shivers. There was nothing John could do to prevent this, but he would have bargained his soul to make this all go away. He reached for Sherlock’s hand offering comfort and secretly seeking it himself.

He thought about what he had seen today, of what he had experienced, of how sudden things can change and how fragile every moment can be. He thought about Sherlock falling, bleeding. He had always thought that when a situation like that presented itself, he would know what to do immediately. That he would respond heroically, without a moment’s hesitation. He had trusted his training and always believed that the right course of action would be obvious. Tonight he had learned that true fear is a paralytic and it takes longer than a moment to see the right course of action.

He thought about everything Sherlock had gone through, of all the things John doesn’t know. He thought about the scars, about every mark on his body and how they came to be. He wondered how Sherlock had done it, how anyone can break that way without breaking.

Maybe today was the breaking point a tiny vicious voice whispered in his ear, but he refused to believe it. Yet he couldn’t help seeing Sherlock gasping for air as the panic attacked him, see him too damaged to put an empty glass on the nightstand and see him pulling away from John’s touch, trying to hide everything away. Out of sight, out of mind, that sort of thing, except it does not work like that.  Not anymore. Sherlock had been afraid. Afraid for him.  Afraid of him. He had avoided looking at John but then all of a sudden he had, and even in this state he had seen something, something that kept him from looking away so there was still hope.

Hope that despite everything John had done, he might still get a chance to help him, to be there for him. The only thing to do right now, however was to wait, wait for the wounds to heal and for the body to recover. But that awful mess on his shoulder blade that had been left untreated for god knows how many days were worrisome. John feared that it might create complications, halt the rest of the healing process.

He cursed himself again for not seeing it. He was a doctor, for crying out loud, he should have picked up on the signs. The worst part was that he would have, if he had cared enough to look.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of the front door opening and closing tore John away from his thoughts. Someone was coming.  He could hear the rapid footsteps up the stairs. Adrenaline washed over him like waves soaking him in both strength and determination. There was no fear as he reached for the gun and quietly made his way out of Sherlock’s room and into the hallway. John placed himself in front of the door patiently waiting for the intruder to finish his task and step inside. Gun raised and safety of -no one would get past him.

The doorknob finally turned and the door was thrown open.

-Okay, so someone would get past him, someone who did not even spare as much as one thought at backing down even as he was staring down the end of a barrel.

It took John’s mind a moment to process what his eyes were perceiving. The wrinkled suit, the untucked shirt, the tangled hair. It was none other than Mycroft Holmes, but it sure did not look like him. John realised that he had never seen him without the umbrella, but here he was storming in from the pouring rain without it. John also realised what an idiotic thing that was to think about at a time like this. He never thought he had seen Mycroft look this hysterical.  No, correction, he had never seen him look hysterical at all.

Mycroft ignored the gun, looking right through it in search for John’s eyes. His own conveying the storm raging from within, “How is he?” he demanded

John let out a small sigh of relief and instantly lowered the gun. “He’s recovering.”

 “How bad is it?”

Was this how it had been for Mycroft for years? This constant fear of losing him; of having lost him unknowingly? Knowing that his brother was out there somewhere alone, unprotected. How it must have felt each time Sherlock was unable to check in. How many times had Mycroft been forced to go through this?  “I worry about him constantly,” Mycroft had told John that first time they met; it had never been as clear as it now was.

John looked down at the floor, brushed a hand over his face. “I-he-“

“John, how bad?” Mycroft demanded, still miles away from his usual composed self.

“He is stable.” John started, trying to chase away all the worst-case scenarios filling Mycroft’s mind. “He has a deep laceration on the right side of his forehead, his shoulder was dislocated, but I was able to perform a closed reduction and got the bone back in place. He has a long laceration leading all the way up and into his lower rib, I managed to get out all the small fragments of the glass.  One piece was actually stuck in the bone.” He paused, risking a glance at Mycroft’s worried face.

”He just collapsed right in front of me Mycroft, and I- I couldn’t see, couldn’t think straight. At first I thought it was from the blood loss or from the pain. But I don’t think that was the case, I found another wound on his back, he must have gotten it before he came back; left it untreated…” He stopped allowing himself a moment to compose himself, swallowing down, trying to ease the pain in his burning throat. “His temperature is still way too high, and I don’t know how long it will take his body to fight off the infection.”

Mycroft made his way into the living room and collapsed in Sherlock’s armchair. “I should have seen it,” he admitted, disappointed by his own shortcomings.

John took the seat in front of Mycroft. “Me too,” he bit out through the guilt.

“Well, I did see that he was in agony, I just misjudged the cause.”

The words pierced John’s skin, a large nail hammering deeper and deeper into his heart. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft stared him down, disappointment and rage visible on every line in his face. “You should be,” he said voice lower than usual, laced with thunder. John knew that voice and it took him back to his younger years, scared and hiding under the covers waiting for the storm to pass. But he is all grown up now, and there is nowhere to hide.

John deserved that, he really did. They had been allies, united for a common goal - Sherlock’s safety. Sherlock had a knack for finding trouble and putting himself in unnecessary danger. And Mycroft had always counted on John to be there for his brother, to help protect him and keep him out of harm’s way. There had been a great amount of trust there, and now… well now John had diminished that trust and had no idea how to restore it.

“I appreciate everything you did for him last night, but your service is no longer required. I believe it’s for the best if I take care of him now.” Mycroft said, reaching for his phone preparing to dial some stranger who would take Sherlock away.

Mycroft was cutting him out, John could see it, could sense it, but he refused to let that happen. Mycroft was insane if he believed that John would leave Sherlock now. “Wherever he goes, I follow,” John said, voice filled with determination. “I think it’s better if he stays here, but if you believe it to be unsafe, then we will relocate.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up at that, all thoughts of the phone forgotten. He had not thought that John would argue, he had thought that he would just give in. John sat quietly, waiting for Mycroft’s response.

“My brother has always had many talents, one of them unfortunately being self-destruction. He has, for as long as I can remember, found ways to feed this beast. His recklessness, the way he alienates himself, the drugs and well, even Moriarty, all serve to prove this point. I always believed that you, doctor Watson, were to be the solution, not just another cause.” He let out yet another sigh of disappointment before he continued. “This thing between you now, it’s killing him, yet he is unable to walk away. You are toxic. So tell me, why should I allow him to stay?”

“I planned to be the solution, I wanted to be and now-” he stopped right there, everything he was about to say sounded like excuses, just empty words without any real meaning. John knew what he had done and the least he could do now was own up to it.

John buried his face in his hands. “I know I screwed up,” he said.  Not an excuse, not a plea for forgiveness, just a fact. “I should have been there for him, but I wasn’t. I hurt him, I wish I hadn’t, but I did. I would take it all back if I could, but it’s too late for that.”

Sadly for John time did not move in that direction, there was no pause, no repeat and definitely no reverse. “The only thing I can do now is to be there for him. I will not leave his side, not unless he tells me to. I want to protect him Mycroft.”  This last bit was important, so he looked up at Mycroft making sure that he was listening still. “And that won’t change even if he sends me away,” he said. “I won’t stop before I know that he is safe, so I would really appreciate if you could tell me anything you know about what happened last night.”

The urge to leave and to stay swept over Mycroft, back and forth, muddy and clear and mixed. The reasons to vanish, to take Sherlock away were obvious, but the reasons to stay were hazy and uncertain. He trusted John’s words, but what did they really mean? “What are you ready to give, what are you prepared to do?” he asked, still undecided about what would be the right course of action.

“Anything. Everything,” was John’s true and immediate response.  

And by some miraculous force those words were enough, and Mycroft began to talk. A dead man identified as one Sebastian Moran had been found, Sherlock’s prints on the weapon, Sherlock’s blood on the body. John thought of asking Mycroft what that evidence would do to Sherlock, but knowing Mycroft, that issue would have already been dealt with. Mycroft told John about the phone call Sherlock had received earlier that evening. John wondered how Mycroft could possibly know about that, but just as John was about to ask Mycroft pressed a few buttons on his phone, handing it over to John.

“You bugged his phone?” John asked, not entirely surprised by this invasion of privacy. More grateful for it, really.

John pressed the play button, and Sherlock’s voice flowed through the tiny speaker. John’s body tensed with every second, his pulse racing with every word. He heard Sherlock’s voice betraying the calm that he was trying to portray. John came to the part about himself, his shaking fingers tapping the pause button.

 _Fuck! How could he not have seen this?_ “You didn’t send anyone after me last night, did you?”

To this Mycroft shook his head and John returned to the recording. It had been an obvious trap, Sherlock had known that, yet he had gone. Alone. He wanted to ask why, but he already knew. John forced himself to breathe, to hold back the tears, to keep himself together.

“He went there for me,” he whispered, feeling like the lowest being to ever walk this earth.

Mycroft stared at John for a short moment, then nodded his head in response. John understood Mycroft’s fury from before even clearer now, and those earlier words rang so true. “The sooner you realise that everything he does is for you, the better.”

John felt like shit, and it would have been so easy to get stuck in that deep hole that he had dug for himself. He didn’t stay though, he crawled his way back out because Mycroft needed to know that there was still a threat out there. John did not know who the man was, but he knew how he looked and thinks he can identify him if he is given the chance. He began telling Mycroft all of this, but a sudden commotion from Sherlock’s bedroom caught their attention and both men raced towards the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had stumbled from the bed, knocked over one of the moving boxes and was now pushing himself against the wall, searching for anything that would keep him steady -holding himself up by sheer determination. _How the hell was he even standing now?_

“What are you doing?” John gasped.

“Leaving,” he responded

Sherlock could not leave, not when John had finally gotten him back, and not when John had so much to make up for. Where would he go? What was Sherlock thinking? He needed to rest and recover, he needed to let John take care of him. He was not well enough to fight any more battles right now, he would only get himself killed. If John let him leave, then he would surely lose him all over again. He could not allow this to happen, he refused to let go. He needed to do something, say anything that would make Sherlock see reason.

“You can’t go. You can barely stand,” John argued.

Mere moments after John had said it Sherlock’s legs started to shake uncontrollably and John barely made it in time to catch him before they gave out completely. It had almost been as if some secret force from the universe was trying to help John prove his point.

“Sherlock, please,” begged John, trying with the assistance of Mycroft to get Sherlock back into the bed. But Sherlock did not listen, he was too far gone, mumbling about Foley, danger, revenge, just a string of words for John to try to make sense of.

“He will come for me, and you can’t be near me when he does,” he got out struggling to free himself from their grasp, looking at his brother with pleading eyes, silently begging him to understand, to help, to take him away.

John thought that his heart had stopped, or maybe it was the world that had finally decided to stop spinning, because everything all around him just halted. He saw all that he promised to keep fighting for disappearing, he saw Sherlock walk out of his life. Sherlock’s words had created a tornado in John’s mind, he no longer had any control over his actions as he tried to sort through the debris, he took the first piece he could find and decided to use it.

“No, he won’t,” he said and kept searching for the next piece in the ruin of his mind.

There were warning signs up ahead, but he ignored them. There in the rubble it was; a tiny little box which held the words to say. The words that would make this all go away. _John shouldn’t_ , but he did.

“He won’t because he is dead.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily, there was no stopping it.

What had he done? He had just lied to Sherlock. It was a terrible thing to do. It was a selfish thing to do. But John could not make himself care, because it might just work. Sherlock looked at John like he did not know what to make of it. John prayed that Sherlock was too tired, to feverish and too strung out from the pain pills to detect the lie. He tried to make himself unreadable, tried to prepare himself for questions, but then…

“John is telling the truth,” Mycroft announced, meeting John’s eyes in a silent agreement. “That threat was eliminated last night.”

He had not counted on that, on Mycroft being his saviour but Mycroft’s words had come as a blessing, and John saw Sherlock slump down in what could only be an overpowering sense of relief. It was a good thing that they were still holding him. They successfully manoeuvred the semiconscious Sherlock back to the bed, and then Mycroft asked for a moment alone with his brother.

 

* * *

 

 

John paced around in the living room, waiting for Mycroft to return. A thousand thoughts ran riot through his worried mind. _Had he made the right choice? What would Mycroft say? What was he telling Sherlock?_  The lie had been well intended, but did that make it all right? Sherlock was obviously terrified of this Foley character and convinced that he would come after him. Was it wrong to keep him in the dark, to trick him into a false sense of security? But it would not be false, thought John, because he would be safe, John would make sure of it.

The whole situation was a grey area; it was hard to tell right from wrong. He could argue this back and forth for all eternity and still would not be any wiser.  He decided finally to listen to his heart and it told him that sometimes you had to do something wrong to be able to make something right.

He made his way to the kitchen busying his hands with the simple task of tea making. The whole world was upside down, so he sought comfort in that familiar process. He put everything on a tray and carried it over to the living room, placing it on the coffee table. He thought to bring biscuits, but his stomach turned in protest. Mycroft quietly made his way out of Sherlock’s room, closing the door slowly, careful not to wake the now sleeping detective.

John saw Mycroft heading his way and immediately felt the need to defend his actions, starting by stating the obvious. “He would have left if he knew,” he blurted out the moment Mycroft was close enough to hear him.

Mycroft looked sharper, more focused, more like himself again. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. He most definitely would have,” he said, even sounding like himself. It was easier now, easier to defend, easier to fight back, now that he knew what they are up against.

“He would have gotten himself killed.” The words physically hurt John on their way out.

“In this condition yes, I believe he would.”

The conformation did not make things any better, and John felt the panic begin to rise in his chest. “Then he can’t know. I can’t let him leave Mycroft. I can’t.”

“John,” Mycroft said quietly. “Sit down.” John did as he was told, and Mycroft followed suit, placing himself on the sofa next to John. The first thing he said was that John had made the right choice, that the lie he told just saved Sherlock’s life. John let out a sigh in relief. _They were on the same page_. Mycroft began informing John about Foley, filling in the blanks. “You should know that if you stay with him,” he said, throwing a glance in the direction of Sherlock’s room, “you will remain a target.”

Seemed as if John was not the only one to state the obvious. “Yeah, I figured as much. But it’s not my safety I’m worried about,” he stated truthfully.

“You would be wise to remember that he survived three years of this.” It was meant to be comforting, but failed. It was meant to remind him of what Sherlock could accomplish.  Instead it only reminded him of all he had been forced to endure. All it did was add new brush strokes to the horrid picture his mind had made up about Sherlock’s years away.

“Yes, but at what cost?” John asked, but it did not gain a response. It was not Mycroft’s place to tell. Mycroft could not change what had happened, but he could make sure that history did not repeat itself. Starting with the highest security known to man, and the promise to John that Foley would be taken care of.

Mycroft’s promise was worth a lot, but it was not good enough. John needed to do something; he could not just sit back and wait. “I want to help. I need to help. Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

The false news of Foley’s demise had been enough for Sherlock’s mind to finally allow his body the rest it so desperately needed. It would take four days. Four days of sleep, of bad dreams, of hallucinations, of shivers from the cold or soaked sheets from the heat until the fever finally began to break.

-John on the other hand did not sleep, an hour at a time tops was all his own mind would allow.

Mycroft and John had come to an agreement, regarding Foley. They had, for obvious reasons, decided to make it a covert operation, a quiet affair known only by a small number of agents that had been handpicked by Mycroft himself. John had been granted access to every file the government had on Foley.  _There was a lot to read_. John devoured the reports, trying to learn as much as he could, trying to get inside Foley’s head, learn his habits and strengths and find his weaknesses.

The deeper he dug the darker it got. Foley was a monster.  There was no other word to describe him. The things John read about made him physically ill. John knew what the last file entailed, Mycroft had warned him about it. To MI6 it was a report from agent Sigerson, but Mycroft and John know better.  To them it was Sherlock’s report, Sherlock’s words, Sherlock’s experiences. John read it and wept, then read it again and again. Same for the medical report. He now knew every scar, every mark inflicted by Foley’s hand.

Sherlock had broken free, cut his throat and then set the place on fire. Burning it to the ground. It should have been enough, but it had not. Foley was like a cockroach - good at hiding and good at surviving.

John wished that he had been there to prevent it. He wished that he could remove every scar that Foley has planted on Sherlock, He wished that he had known who he was when he fought him. He wished that he had killed him right then and there. He did that a lot these days - wished for impossible things.

He spent his days close to Sherlock, never further away than the kitchen. He cooked dinners that would not be eaten. He continued his research. He cleaned Sherlock’s wounds twice a day, tried to get him to eat or drink any chance he got. Mycroft stopped by every day to see how his brother was doing, and of course updating John on the search for Foley.

He spent his nights by Sherlock’s bedside trying to chase away his nightmares. Sherlock talked a lot in his sleep. Reciting words, reliving old memories. _He says John’s name often_. John does not regret the lie, not for one second. He thinks about Sherlock trying to chase after Foley in this condition and knows with the uttermost certainty that he made the right choice.

They had not really talked, not yet. Sherlock had not stayed awake long enough for John to even begin to broach the subject. Each time Sherlock woke up he looked at John with disbelief, like he is unsure that John is really there, like he does not trust what he is seeing.

 

* * *

 

 

On the fourth day John left Sherlock’s room in order to take a quick shower and when he returned Sherlock had been sitting on the bed, wide awake. John felt the urge to start with the long overdue apology that he had spent the last days rehearsing, but decided to hold it back for a little while longer, just until he had made sure that Sherlock was well enough to hear it. “How are you feeling?” John asked, walking over to Sherlock’s side to check his temperature.

“Fine,” Sherlock lied, looking up at John with those deep blue orbs.

John could tell that Sherlock was lying, but he also knew that he hated to show weakness, and decided to let it slide for now. “I can’t give you anything for about two hours, but some food might help.” He felt nervous, so incredibly anxious he might say something wrong, mess something up. “You must be starving. I could order in, Chinese? Thai? Indian? Whatever you’d like. Oh, I know maybe that thing with the mushrooms, you used to love that- I think it was Vietnamese… what was it called?” _My god he was a blabbering mess!_ But he could not make himself stop.

“John you don’t have to,” Sherlock began, “I can call Mycroft.  He can pick me up.” _Sherlock wanted to leave? Or Sherlock thought that John wanted him to?_ “You don’t have to keep taking care of me. “

He was not sure how long he stood there, head shaking from side to side in a silent no. “I want to. Please Sherlock,” he finally gets out “can we just- please stay.” John could hear his own desperation in the words, but like before he was unable to do anything about it.

Maybe Sherlock understood, or maybe he took pity on John or maybe he was just too tired to argue because he did agree to stay. The relief he felt almost knocked him down, but he recovered quickly and hurried over to the kitchen in search of the right take-away menu. He found it, but the damned place was closed, and so he had to settle for something else.

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door, and John ran downstairs to retrieve the food. When he got back up, he found Sherlock waiting on the sofa, the blue dressing gown wrapped tightly around him. It must have taken a lot of energy from him to make it out into the living room by himself. John wanted to tell him not to strain himself, tell him that he could have waited, that John would have helped. John saw that he was in pain.  He could also see that Sherlock was trying to hide it, but the tiny line between his eyebrows and the slightly laboured breaths gave him away.

“You okay?” he asked. He did not expect an honest answer, and he did not get one.

He started to unpack the food, filling the whole table with it. Seemed he had gone a bit overboard with the order, but he wanted Sherlock to have options. He finally sat down, waiting for Sherlock to take whatever he wanted. Sherlock’s lip curved upwards as he viewed the table and reached for the Kung Pao chicken.

“What changed?” Sherlock asked just as John was splitting his chopsticks.

Sherlock looked at John and John looked at the food. “They were closed, apparently the place is being renovated,” he explained, looking away from the food and over to Sherlock. “But that’s not what you’re asking is it?”

“No.”

“You did,” John said, hearing how incredibly stupid it sounded. Sherlock looked at him, confusion written all over his face. This was not how it was supposed to go, those were not the right words. Where had they gone? _Damn it_. He had prepared for this. He had practised, picked out every word with caution and care, he had memorised them, so he knew with certainty that they were not the same as the ones now leaving his mouth. “Or I did.” Apparently all the words from that well-rehearsed speech were gone. “Everything did.”

John understood that he was not making much sense right now, so he tried to explain it, all of it. What he had felt, what he had seen and the unjust conclusion he had drawn from that. He told Sherlock that they had not been true, of course. That they were all wrong, but that he had not understood it at the time, that it had become his reality. Nerves and shame making it exceptionally tricky not to stumble on the words.

“I’m not going to make excuses for myself, you deserve more than that. I know that I have hurt you, and I wish that I could say that that wasn’t my intention, but I honestly don’t know if that would count as a lie. All I know is that I am sorry.” Heart heavy with regret, John could not make himself look at Sherlock when he delivered the next words. “I don’t expect you to forgive me and I’m not asking you to.”

“What I did to- what I put you through-“Sherlock began, but he, like John, also seemed to struggle with the words. Sherlock had always sounded so sure before, well-spoken, he always found the right words. “I understand… you had every right- it’s normal to react- “ he stopped there shaking his head in frustration and began again. “John, what I’m trying to say is that I understand and it’s alright.”

_No it’s not! It really isn’t!_

Sherlock’s words shattered John’s composure.  His voice cracked and broke as he said, “My reaction was not normal or right.”

It was unbelievable. How could Sherlock defend John’s actions? In what possible way could what he had done ever be classified as alright? How could Sherlock understand it when John, who was the one who had done it, found it completely unreasonable?

“You should have punched me,” said John. “Knocked me down, knocked me out! You should have held me down and forced me to listen. To hear you out.” He let out a breath, hearing how it sounded. “No. I’m sorry.  It's not on you… you’re not the one who should have done things differently. I am.”

He looked up at the ceiling, placed his gaze on a dark spot up there. A mark from another time, an easier time. John stayed there, stuck in the past for a few seconds. He thought about that time, about the tiny explosion from an experiment gone wrong. About Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive suit covered in the dark goo, that astonished look on his face. He remembered them laughing, he remembered them cleaning up the mess together.

John was still looking up swallowing down hard. “You have every right to hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” John’s head instantly snapped down at that, searching for Sherlock’s eyes. He could not believe what he was hearing, but Sherlock’s eyes were honest, the look on his face was sincere. “I was scared,” Sherlock mumbled. “I looked into your eyes, but you were not there anymore, and I knew that I had done that, I had caused that… I didn’t want to cause you even more pain than I had already inflicted.”

Yes, he had been in pain, but that did not seem relevant now. It was not something he could hide under, not something he would armour himself with, not anymore. And besides, he was not the only one who had been through hell, not the only one who had felt agony. John was about to say that it was his own cowardliness, his inability to deal that had been that cause of all of this, tell Sherlock that it was not his fault, that John had made himself disappear.

He was just about to open his mouth when Sherlock began to talk again. “I will never tell you that I am sorry for what I did, because that would mean apologising for keeping you alive. But for everything you had to go through, for all the pain I caused you, for that I am deeply sorry.”

There were tears in John’s eyes threatening to overflow.  He held them back. John did not blame Sherlock and he told him so. He did not know where to go from there, if salvation was even possible. Could they go back? He did not believe so, but maybe, just maybe they could build something new.

They ate in silence, neither sure what more to say. John wanted to ask Sherlock thousands of questions about his time away, but he was afraid that it would be too soon, that Sherlock would not be ready to talk about that. Still, he wanted him to know that he would be there to listen, to help in any way that he could. A part of him felt like he did not deserve to know, not when he repeatedly had refused to listen before. He decided that he needed to make sure that Sherlock knew that he was ready to listen, that he would never shut him out again.

“I know this might be too little, too late, ” he admitted, “but the things you wanted to say before, when you came back, everything I refused to hear… I want to hear it now if that’s- if you still want to.” It sounded better in his head. All he wanted to do was offer what he had taken from him before; a chance to explain, to convey his story.

“You already know.”

Of course Sherlock had figured that out. “Yes, parts of it. But not all, and not from you.”

John was not sure what to expect, but then Sherlock seemed almost relieved, and he began to talk. He explained when he first had understood Moriarty’s aim, when he had figured out the endgame. Sherlock told John what had happened on the roof, why Moriarty had put a bullet into his own head. He did not go into any detail about the last three years, only said that he had hunted them all down; left Moriarty’s life’s work in ruins. Sherlock did not talk about Foley, did not mention the scars, and did not say anything about the things he had gone through in order to return home.

John wanted to ask, he really did, but he was afraid to push Sherlock, afraid to demand too much.

There was one thing though, one question he was unable to hold back. “Why?”  He asked, when Sherlock was done talking.

At first Sherlock looked confused, then he looked over at John with questions in his eyes. Questions like; are you serious? How stupid are you? Have you even been listening? In a different time Sherlock would have probably asked all three, probably thrown in an insult as well, now he only said “because of the snipers.”

Yes of course, because of the snipers thought John, but that was not what he was asking. “No,” he said, before rephrasing his first question. “Why my life over yours?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer instantly, but then shut it closed before any words had made it out. “Selfish reasons,” he said, giving himself a moment to pause. “A world without you in it was not something I was ready to endure.”

John did not know what to say so he said nothing. Instead, he reached for Sherlock’s hand squeezing it tightly in his own. They remained like that for a long time, until John needed to give Sherlock his medication and check his bandages.

When that was done John made tea, and they just talked for a while. Sherlock fell asleep on the couch, still exhausted and weak from the fever. John put a blanket over him, let his fingers travel softly over that porcelain skin. John did not know where they were headed or what the future holds, but he knew that today was good, today had been one step in the right direction. He stayed on the couch, close to Sherlock watching over him, and eventually followed him into sleep.

They moved forward, both of them did. Sometimes it was too hard, and sometimes it was too easy. Security and trust, those things require strong foundations; do not appear overnight. They work on it, slow and steady; it grows stronger every day. There are a lot of things to talk through, work through, but one thing is clear; all is not lost.

 

 

 


End file.
